Dark Rhapsody

by Helaine Mario

  “It’s not too late to find your way back to the podium,” said Hannah. “But the important thing now is that you’re here for Maggie. Finally. That’s a good beginning.”

  “Not good enough,” said Michael, his voice stony and unforgiving. “We have questions. Too many things don’t add up. So, pour a drink and take a seat, Finn.”

  Lifting a bottle of sparkling water from a glass tray, Finn settled into the chair next to Maggie. He started to reach for her hand, then thought better of it and gripped the rolled leather arm instead. He locked eyes with Michael. “I was drinking so much in those days, I couldn’t say for sure what I saw. All I knew was that I had to protect my daughter from any more pain. I couldn’t let her take the blame for something I caused. And I knew her grandmother would take good care of her.”

  “So you ran,” said Michael.

  * * *

  “I was conducting Beethoven’s Eroica,” said Finn Stewart into the silence. “The irony, I see now, playing a piece that reaches so far into the past.” He shook his head.

  “We were sold out, they had filled the chorister seats—” he turned to Michael— “those seats for overflow guests, behind the orchestra, facing the audience—and I knew Maggie was up there somewhere, watching me. I was approaching the end of the first movement. God, I was on fire. The music was roaring with dissonance, the heroic struggle, those climactic sforzando chords! That damned third horn actually came in on the beat. And then …”

  Now Finn was standing, gesturing wildly with his arms, overcome with memory. In the flickering firelight, Maggie thought he looked unworldly—like a God conducting a storm on Mt. Olympus.

  “It was so beautiful,” she whispered. “But then you looked up into the seats, you looked right at me. You just stopped conducting. And you ran off the stage.” Maggie leaned toward him, her voice fierce, vibrating with remembered pain. “Why didn’t you take me with you? You just disappeared into the night. You walked off the stage and left me behind. What did I do to make you leave me? Why did you stop loving me?”

  Finn opened his eyes, found hers. “Christ, is that what you thought, all these years? No wonder you …” He shook his head with sorrow. “No, sprite,” he said gently. “I wasn’t looking at you. I was looking at the man sitting directly behind you. Someone I met a long time ago, at Yale. Victor Orsini.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  NEW YORK CITY

  TUESDAY NIGHT, OCTOBER 28

  HIS EMINENCE ROBERT CARDINAL BRENNAN opened the door. “Zander! What are you doing here at this hour? I thought you were in East Hampton with Maggie. I’m planning on joining you all there tomorrow for your gala.”

  Zander brushed by him, entered the Cardinal’s New York office on Madison Avenue. “They all think I’m in DC for the night. But …”

  Robbie gestured toward an easy chair. “But here you are. Have a seat, Zander. I’ll get us a drink.” He moved to a table, poured two stiff single malt whiskeys, and handed one to his guest. “I’m thinking you aren’t here to discuss the Red Sox. Or Thomas Aquinas, for that matter.”

  Zander drank the whole two fingers of whiskey in one long swallow and held out his glass for a refill. “How far can a man ride his ambition? I’m finally so close to getting everything I ever wanted. The highest court in the land …”

  “If you want to test a man’s character, you give him power.”

  Zander stared at him and nodded slowly. “Now my sins are catching up with me, Robbie, and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Sins against God, Zander? Or sins against man? Because God will forgive you, but I’m afraid men won’t.” He poured more whiskey into Zander’s glass, sat across from him, and waited.

  “Tomorrow I’m going to withdraw my name from the President’s consideration for Supreme Court Justice.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  Zander took a deep breath. “Finn Stewart has come home. Maggie’s missing father. He’s in the Hamptons with her.”

  “I suspected the reports of his death were exaggerated. But why is this a problem for you? He was your good friend. And I would think you would be happy for your goddaughter. How is Finn connected to your court appointment?”

  “I thought I’d put it all behind me,” murmured Zander, staring down into his glass.

  “But the devil is hard to cast out.”

  “Impossible. He’s why I’m here. It’s all going to come out now. Finn will know everything.”

  “A good man apologizes for the mistakes of the past, but a great man corrects them. Maybe it’s time to right a wrong, Zander. What happened?”

  Zander swirled his whiskey, shook his head. “I fell for Maggie’s mother, Lily, years ago. She would come to Ocean House when Finn was gone, so beautiful and talented and lonely, and I was—well, I was lonely, too. She was married to my best friend, but …”

  “The eternal struggle between two principles—right and wrong.” Robbie gazed at him over the rim of his glass.

  “I never expected to fall in love with her.” Zander stopped at the window, pulled back the heavy drapes to gaze out at the winking lights of Madison Avenue. “One night, when Lily was at Ocean House, I found her crying by the music room pool. She told me she was divorcing Finn. I thought we could finally be together, but she refused to be with me. She still loved him, she said. She didn’t love me.

  “I was blinded by fury. I just wanted her to be with me. I was gripping her arm, shouting at her. She fought back, tried to wrench away from me. She screamed that she would never love me. I grabbed her, swung her around. And, God help me, I hit her. So hard …” He dropped his head in his hands.

  “She was stunned, lost her balance, fell into the pool.” He turned to Robbie. “I didn’t know what to do, I just turned and ran.”

  “Good God!”

  “I’m not proud of it. I panicked. But almost immediately I realized what I’d done and ran back to the pool.”

  “Ah. And you saw Maggie there.”

  “Yes. She was screaming, soaking wet. I think she’d jumped in to try to rescue her mother. And then she looked up and saw me.”

  He shook his head back and forth.

  “She was hysterical. I moved toward her, but she fainted, just dropped to the stones. Must have hit her head when she fell. It all happened so fast. Finn showed up, came running. I shouted for him to take care of his daughter, and I jumped in to save Lily.”

  “But she was gone.”

  “Yes.” Zander dropped his head into his hands. “My beautiful Lily was gone.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  THE HAMPTONS

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 29

  THE BOAT, MOORED on a floating dock in the Three Mile Harbor Marina just north of East Hampton, was sleek and compact. Dane slipped the false passport back into his jacket pocket. The rental, in the name of Richard York, had gone well. No one questioned his name, borrowed from Shakespeare’s Richard III of York. No one looked beyond the mirrored sunglasses, the cap pulled low over his forehead. No one questioned leather gloves on a cool autumn day. Just a quick swipe of a credit card. Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. York. Enjoy your two nights on the Dream Weaver.

  Now Dane gazed out the porthole at the boats in the colorful, crowded marina.

  For the first time in months, he felt at home. The strong scent of fish at low tide, the rhythmic lap of water against hulls, the bright blue afternoon sky, the clink of rope and metal against tall masts—all reminded him of the tiny harbor in Greece where he had gone to ground after Victor Orsini’s death.

  He would go back there as soon as he took his rightful place in the stolen art world. He would bring Beatrice and the baby with him.

  His thoughts moved to Beatrice, jet-lagged and suffering from morning sickness, asleep in the wan sunlight on the deck above him. He hoped the boat’s slight rocking would soothe her, not make her sicker.

  His eyes slid over the narrow galley counter. All was in readiness. The nylon rope, the duct tape, the set of filled syr
inge needles, all ready to go. And his favorite knife, his Laguiole, sharpened and waiting for him. So much more intimate than a pistol.

  He slipped the items into a strapped leather bag, then pulled the curtains across the portholes to darken the cabin. So. Everything was now ready for his special guest. He glanced at his watch. Another hour, and he would leave for Ocean House.

  Finally, the last act was about to begin. Magdalena O’Shea would lead him to Victor’s art. One way or another.

  But first, he would wake Beatrice, settle her in their motel room down the road, suggest a well-deserved hot bath. Breathing deeply of the cold salty air, he reached for the still-unopened bottle of Absolut on the counter. Hesitated. Reached instead for the kettle.

  Beatrice had told him that hot tea with sugar settled her stomach.

  * * *

  The ballroom glittered with candlelight and the notes of Schubert spun through the air.

  Maggie stood at the doorway, gazing at the scene before her. The rows of gilt chairs, now filled with tuxedoed and bejeweled Yale alumni and guests, were set in a half circle facing the stage. A long table against one wall held platters of hors d’oeuvres and tall crystal glasses of Dom Perignon. On the low stage at the end of the room, beneath the tall windows, a popular string quartet from Yale was coming to the end of its performance.

  Another chair was set to the side of the stage, with Hannah’s cello on its stand beside it, ready for her solo. She was still upstairs, Maggie assumed, mentally preparing to play several of Maggie’s favorite pieces—three of the profoundly moving Bach Cello Suites.

  Beyond the French doors, the night was black and silver, the air a translucent wash of gray. Fog. The fog was rolling in, falling like a silver veil over the lawns and dunes and turning the world to silent, shimmering metal. Maggie shivered in spite of the warmth in the ballroom.

  Strong hands slid around her waist, pulled her close. The scent of the mountains touched her cheek, and she leaned back against Michael’s chest. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said softly. “Where have you been?”

  He turned her around to face him, touched her face with the warm palm of his hand. “Texting with Sugar. He should be here any minute. And he is not a happy camper.” He gave her his lopsided grin as his eyes moved over her shoulders, bared by an off-the-shoulder dress the color of plums. “You look astonishingly beautiful. Are you sure we can’t skip this popsicle stand and head straight upstairs?”

  God, she loved his hands. “We are staying for Hannah,” she reminded him with a smile.

  He drew her behind a wall of tall potted greenery. “As soon as she’s finished, then, we have a date.” He wagged his spiky eyebrows at her in the best tradition of an old vaudeville villain and pressed his lips to her shoulder. Holding her close, he whispered, “Dance with me. I want my arms around you.”

  His eyes were on her, burning with light. A thrilling shiver passed through her. “There’s no music.”

  “Sure there is.” He began to hum against her ear, then spun her around and caught her close, trapping her body against his, swaying slowly. Heat ignited, powerful and intense as a struck match.

  “Later,” she managed, locking her eyes on his. “Right now I have to mingle with Zander’s guests.”

  “Not quite yet.” He stopped a passing waiter, swiped two glittering flutes of champagne from the silver tray. Handing her a goblet, he raised his own to her as he leaned closer. “To intelligence and passion.”

  “To later tonight,” she whispered.

  Across the room, waiters began to close the French doors against the creeping fingers of fog. Suddenly anxious, she asked, “Where is Shiloh?”

  “Hard to tear him away from Jac.”

  She nodded, unsurprised. “It’s good to see him happy again. Simon has that same look in his eyes when he’s near Hannah. I hope he gets here in time to hear her play.” She saw the expression on his face. “What? What’s happened to Simon?”

  “He found Hannah’s grandfather’s art in a French chapel ruin, had a run-in with a gristmill, ended up with a bad headache and an empty crypt.”

  “Oh no,” she whispered. “Poor Simon. Poor Hannah. I hope she doesn’t—” The lights began to blink and Maggie gazed around the crowded ballroom. “It’s time for Hannah’s performance. I don’t see her …”

  The guests took their seats, the lights dimmed, Zander walked out onto the stage and stood in a cone of light. “Wayne Newton said, ‘When I die, I’d like to come back as a cello.’” Rewarded with laughter, he smiled. “To me, there is no other sound like it. And no other cellist like our next guest. Hannah Hoffman will inspire you. She transcends technique, somehow finding the truths that give profound meaning to our world. Hannah’s music embodies our Yale motto, Lux et Veritas. Light and Truth.”

  Zander looked to his right, toward an empty doorway. His shoulders lifted in a slight question as he continued. “Tonight, Hannah will play the first three Bach Suites for unaccompanied cello. For me, they are remarkable because they achieve the effect of three to four voices, even though there is only one.” Zander held out his hand. “So, please give your warmest Yale welcome to our very special guest cellist, Hannah Hoffman.”

  A rustle of expectation in the audience as heads turned toward the doorway.

  No one entered.

  “Where is she?” whispered Maggie.

  “Ms. Hoffman,” Zander said again, his voice now slightly raised.

  The cone of light by the entrance remained empty.

  Maggie gripped Beckett’s arm, hard. “Something’s wrong,” she whispered.

  At that moment, the high, mournful howl of a dog filled the night air beyond the fog-filled windows.

  “That’s Shiloh,” said Beckett, fear ripping his voice. Heedless of his bad leg, he ran through the French doors into the misted night. Maggie kicked off her heels and ran after him.

  “Shiloh!” shouted Beckett, standing on the edge of the terrace. “Where are you, fella? I’m coming!”

  Again, the terrible, agonized howl, beyond the dark woods, near the stables. Maggie grasped his arm. “I’m a runner, Michael. Get help and follow me. I’ll find Shiloh.” Before he could stop her, she hiked up her cocktail dress and took off across the lawn, her legs a white blur in the thick gray night.

  Faster. Toward the stables. Unable to see through the curtain of mist, she followed Shiloh’s anguished howls. For a moment, silence. Then sharp, frenzied barking filled the night. Closer. “Be okay, please be okay,” she whispered.

  Fifty yards. Twenty.

  There!

  A large, quivering shape in the blackness, shaggy head lifted in raw pain.

  She ran faster.

  Another shape, darker than the shadows, crumpled and still on the grass. No, no. Please God, no, she prayed.

  She ran up to Shiloh, fell to her knees, and threw her arms around him. “I’m here, boy, I’m here. What’s happened to you?”

  He struggled against her, sank to the earth. She looked down. His great golden head was resting on Jac’s inert body.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  OCEAN HOUSE

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 29

  “OH, JAC …” Maggie bent to the greyhound, listened for breath. Tried to feel a heartbeat in the still, smooth curve of Jac’s chest. In the distance, shouting. Flashlights, blurred and haloed by mist, coming toward her over the hill.

  “Breathe, Jac, breathe,” she whispered. Frantic, she ran her hands over the greyhound’s motionless body, feeling for an injury, blood. There! The smallest rise of the chest. A shaky breath, another. A heartbeat. Weak, but undeniable. The faintest movement. Shiloh lifted his head, his eyes shining at her in the darkness, bewildered and frantic with pain.

  “She’s alive,” whispered Maggie against the Golden’s fur. “We’ll get her help, we’ll—” She stopped speaking, struck by the sudden and terrible realization that Jac should have been—would have been—with Hannah. She spun around, searching the darknes
s.

  Where was Hannah?

  * * *

  “Over here! Maggie, is he all right?” Beckett’s flashlight flew across the grass, scattering the silver shadows, and locked on Maggie.

  “Shiloh is okay, Michael,” she called out. “He’s with me. Jac is here, too. Hurry. She needs a vet. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

  Beckett lunged across the last yard of grass toward the Golden and gathered him in his arms. Zander, Robbie, Finn, and several other guests ran up behind him, surrounding them. Zander was shouting orders into his phone. Robbie dropped to his knees, spread his jacket over the greyhound.

  Maggie pulled Beckett’s head toward her and said against his ear, “Hannah is missing. It has to be Dane. We have to find her.”

  A high, frightened whinny. A shout, from close by. Inside the stables.

  Beckett stiffened, raised his head. “Search the stables!” he shouted. “Hannah Hoffman could be in there.”

  The men scattered, disappearing into the curtain of fog.

  Maggie heard the nervous stamp of the horse’s hooves, the high whinny from a distant stall. She bent to Robbie. “Can you stay with Jac until the vet comes?”

  “Of course, I will. Just be careful.”

  “And you.” Her eyes searched the low roof of the stables, indistinct in the black, wavering shadows. Two trucks were parked to one side, where a wall of high grasses created a thick, shifting gray curtain. So many places to hide.

  Her father appeared from behind one of the trucks. “Anything?” she asked. He shook his head. She was walking toward him when a sudden movement caught her attention.

  Shiloh lurched to his three legs, unsteady, his ears raised, listening. His nose fluttered with scent, pointed. For a brief moment, his eyes dropped to the silent greyhound and he hesitated, as if he couldn’t bear to leave her. Then he barked twice, turned and, with his graceless, rocking gait, loped into the darkness.