“Because of me. You knew—”
“Yes, I knew. That night you came to see me at St. Malachy’s, you told me about your upcoming trip to Vienna. About Simon Sugarman’s search for the art. I realized it was only a matter of time before your agent friend tracked down the ruin. So I arranged to have the art removed. Unfortunately, the timing was a bit tight.”
“Did your men hurt Simon?”
“Nothing serious. They had their instructions. He was only out of commission for a short time.”
“Where are those paintings?”
“One thing at a time, Maggs. I may need a bargaining chip when Simon Sugarman comes for me.” He shook his head. “But that’s not why you’re here—”
“I think you can help us find Hannah Hoffman.”
“What can I do?”
“The man who has Hannah wants the Matisse. Dark Rhapsody. I told you about Gigi’s Dark Rhapsody that night at the church. I trusted you. But you stole it, didn’t you? You have the Matisse.”
Robbie Brennan’s eyes shined with sudden pain. “Gigi was hurt, Robbie! How could you condone that? She was your friend,” she said, her voice too quiet.
Robbie’s head came up. “She wasn’t supposed to be home, Maggs! The men I sent … they thought they were alone. It was an accident, you have to know that.”
“I do. Gigi told me so herself. But she would never have been hurt if you had not stolen the Matisse. A painting that belongs to Hannah Hoffman, not to you.”
He remained motionless, staring down at his clasped hands. “Too many people have been hurt because of me.”
“Talk to me, Robbie. I know you are a good man. How did this happen?”
“I am a man of God, yes, Maggie. But the operative word is ‘man.’ I am not divine. I am fallible, I am human. I have no family, I am alone. I have no need for material things, except for art. A reminder that there is still great beauty in this world. Goodness. The art makes me feel closer to God.”
He shook his head, gazing out the window toward the mansion on Madison Avenue. “But how can a man who claims to have a special connection with God break God’s laws? Is it hypocrisy, or faith?”
She remained silent.
He stood up, moved to stand before the abstract oil, gazing at the bold slashes of color as if they held the answers he sought. “Very few of us have faith without doubt, Maggie. Even in the priesthood. I have always struggled. Of course, I want to be madly in love with my God, but is yearning enough? Or did God make me this way because he wanted me to have ambition, to have pride? To wield great power in his church? To help so many in need over the years? I always have believed that I had good reasons for my choices, my actions. But …”
He turned back to her, his light eyes seeking hers. “Perhaps by challenging my faith—by daring my God—I have been convincing myself that I am right? And that I will be forgiven? Or is hubris my fatal flaw, my mortal sin? Have I twisted my religion to suit my needs? I have no answers. Only that I suspect I am past redemption.”
“I don’t believe that. Neither do you. You can return the Matisse, Robbie. Just tell me where it is. For my mother. For Hannah.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then rose slowly from the chair and turned toward the stairs. “Come with me.”
Together they climbed some twenty steps to the high, shadowed loft. At the top of the stairs, he clicked a switch.
Maggie caught her breath. The room was very long, with no furniture. Only the paintings. Framed, unframed, large, small. Caravaggio, Degas, Monet, Pissarro, Raphael, Cezanne—lining the walls in all their glory. And at the very end of the room, alone on a wall in a circle of light, a painted woman sat against a window filled with night, playing her cello in the candlelight.
“Oh, Robbie …”
A sound on the stairs behind them. They turned as one.
Dane stood on the landing, his pistol trained on Robbie.
“Act III begins,” he said. “Death Comes to the Archbishop.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
NEW YORK CITY
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 30
DANE STEPPED INTO the loft. For a moment, his expression flared as he took in the dozens of glowing paintings hanging on the walls. “Well done, Your Eminence. I hope you have enjoyed them. Because I’m afraid the time has come to commend you to your God.”
“Who the hell are you?” asked Robbie Brennan.
Maggie stepped in front of Robbie as she turned to face Dane. “This man’s name is Dane. He’s a brutal, twisted man who has terrorized me, stalked me, held a knife to my throat. I told you about him, at St. Malachy’s. And now he is here because he wants Felix Hoffman’s collection. He’s willing to kill to get it, Robbie.”
Dane turned his wolf’s smile on Maggie. “Did you enjoy the roses I sent you, Magdalena? I want to thank you for leading me to Orsini’s treasures.”
“How did you find us?”
“You are quite a good driver, Magdalena, but you don’t use your rearview mirror nearly often enough.”
“You should have died on that beach in France,” she whispered. “I would have walked away without a backward glance.”
The pistol circled in the air. Came to rest on the Cardinal’s chest. “Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.”
“Robbie is a man of God. He’s done nothing to you. Just take the art and be damned.”
“It’s not enough, my Juliet. You ruined my life. Now it’s my turn to ruin yours. Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep.” His hand shot out, fast as a striking snake, and gripped her right hand. “I haven’t forgotten my promise,” he told her, his words silky and menacing. “Your fingers. You will never play music again.”
He pulled her toward him, his hold tightening.
Crushing.
God, God. The pain in her fingers was excruciating.
His hands were like a steel vise.
Please God, not my hands.
Maggie kicked out, fighting to pull away, and fell to her knees. Robbie lunged toward Dane, and the pistol swung around to train on his heart.
“No!” cried Maggie. “Don’t shoot him, Dane!”
A soft voice, at the top of the steps. “Dane? She called you Dane. What is going on, Dante?”
Clasping her injured hand to her breast, Maggie looked toward the stairs. A young, dark-haired woman stood on the landing, her hand protectively on her abdomen. Confusion shimmered in the dark eyes.
Without turning, Dane spoke. “I told you to stay downstairs. Go to the truck, Bella. Tell them—”
“I don’t take orders. I repeat, what is going on, Dante?”
Staring at the young woman, Maggie heard the echo of Michael’s voice in her head. There was a woman—the doctor’s daughter. Beatrice. Sudden understanding flashed, and she stood slowly, holding out her hands. “My name is Magdalena O’Shea.”
“Magdalena …” A jolt of recognition lit the woman’s face. She turned to Dane. “The woman who was at the stables? The pianist?”
“I know about you, too,” said Maggie slowly. “Beatrice, yes? You lived in a village in Tuscany? Your father was the doctor who performed Dane’s surgery.”
The woman’s eyes flew to Dane, suddenly wary. “I don’t understand.”
Dane moved toward her. “Don’t listen to her, Bella. Just go downstairs and wait outside.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie saw Robbie take advantage of the distraction to lift the heavy cross and chain from his neck. A glint of gold as his hand disappeared into the deep pocket of his vestments.
“Tell me now, Dante.” Panic trembled in the woman’s voice. “What does she know about my father?”
“Nothing, she knows nothing.”
“His name is Dane, not Dante,” said Maggie. “I don’t know what he told you, Beatrice, but the Tuscan authorities believe he murdered your father.”
The young woman’s face turned translucent as water. She took a step back. “No, no it’s not true. My father died in
a car accident.”
“The police in your village have proof. The car was tampered with. I’m sorry.”
“Bella, let me—” said Dane.
“He murdered your priest as well,” said Maggie.
“God’s black diamonds …” Beatrice shook her head back and forth with pained disbelief. “The black rosary beads, scattered on the attic floor. You told me they were your beads! You lied?” Her eyes filled with horror. “Liar! You lied to me about my father. Dear God, was everything a lie between us?”
“No, Bella, please …”
She ran at him, her fists beating at his chest. “How could you do this to me, Dante? To our baby? I despise you, I hope you rot in hell.”
It all happened at once.
Robbie lunged toward Dane, swinging the long-linked chain with its heavy golden cross like a medieval weapon.
Pop Pop Pop!
Dane’s pistol flashed in the shadows just as the chain caught him across the temple. Blood blossomed over his eyes. As he spun away, his shoulder caught Beatrice. Stunned, she fell backward against the low loft railing with a cry.
Maggie ran toward the young woman. Watched in horror as Beatrice’s legs hit the low wall and her shoulders slid back, out over the void.
Beatrice screamed.
For a split second Dane was frozen as the mother of his child teetered on the edge of the railing. Then, with an agonized shout, he threw himself toward Beatrice, his strong arms reaching, grasping her shirt just as she was about to tumble over the edge.
His body jerked sideways, lifting her away from the railing to safety. But his momentum propelled him forward.
With an astonished gasp, he hit the steel rail with the full force of his body.
Robbie burst from the shadows, arms outstretched, lunging toward Dane. “Hold on!”
Dane reached for him, clutched his arm. For a split second, their eyes locked as both men rocked over the railing. Then the steel gave way with a roaring crash, and they plunged together over the edge.
“No! Robbie!” Maggie flung herself toward the loft’s edge.
A terrible smashing sound, loud as the crescendo of a symphony.
Then silence.
Robbie … She had to get to him. Overwhelmed by horror, blinded by tears, she twisted toward the stairs.
The young woman lay in front of her, so still on the loft floor, her arms locked across her abdomen. What had she said about a baby? I’ve got to help her and the baby.
She dropped to her knees. “Beatrice? Beatrice, it’s Maggie. Where are you hurt? Is it the baby?”
Dear God. The young woman was covered in blood. Maggie reached out to check her pulse. “Talk to me.”
Beatrice opened her eyes. “Il mio bambino?”
“I’m calling 911. Your pulse is strong. Hold on.”
Maggie fumbled for her cell phone, dialed with shaking, slippery fingers. Then she pulled off her jacket, spread it across the woman’s chest.
Beatrice clutched her arm, the single word barely a whisper. “Dante?”
“I don’t know.” Maggie staggered to her feet. Dizzy. Don’t pass out, she told herself. “Help is coming.”
She made it to the stairs. Slipped, fell. Her heart was thundering, sharp pain knifing across her breast. Somehow, she got to her feet. Gripping the bannister, she slid down the last few steps.
“Robbie!”
He was next to Dane, lying on his back. His eyes were closed, legs bent at an unnatural angle, like a broken puppet.
“Robbie, talk to me. Please!”
She smoothed the hair back from his brow. His skin was white, a sudden stain of blood smeared across his forehead. She heard the sobs, realized they were coming from her throat.
His face began to spin. She squeezed her eyes shut and bent her head to his mouth, listening for a breath. “Breathe, Robbie, breathe!”
Yes!
He coughed, light eyes opening slowly. Trying to focus on her.
“Maggs?”
“I’m here, Robbie.” Sirens in the distance. “The ambulance is on its way. Don’t move.”
He moved his head, smiling faintly at her. “Justice and irony shaking hands … God is just balancing the scales. Don’t be afraid, Maggie. It seems I am madly in love with my God, after all.”
“Don’t leave me, Robbie.”
“See to Dane.”
“No.”
She touched his cheek with gentle fingers. “You didn’t have to fall. You tried to save him. Why?”
“Blame your friend Thomas Aquinas.” He winced in pain, gripped her hand. “God himself would not permit evil in this world if good did not come of it, Maggs.”
She swiped at her tears, suddenly sickened by the smell of blood on her hands. “No fair playing the Tommy card,” she whispered, turning to Dane.
Dane had fallen on his back, and he lay in a pool of bright red blood, his eyes open, glazed and staring. He was so still, she thought he was dead. She touched his neck, and he looked right at her.
She flinched, trapped by the glittering golden irises. Very slowly, he reached for her, pulled her toward his mouth.
She tried to pull away, but her body felt like water.
“Beatrice?” he gasped against her cheek. His lips were cold, hard. “The baby?”
She wanted to tell him that Beatrice was dead, wanted to watch his pain drown those terrifying eyes. But she said, “They are safe. She asked for you.”
For a brief moment, the cruel face softened. He nodded, racked by violent coughing. Red drops of blood ran in ribbons across his face.
“Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him. Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end.” His grip on her arm loosened. The room was hot, spinning. She couldn’t catch her breath. She thought she was going to be sick.
She became aware of the sticky warmth streaming down her arm.
“Fly away, fly away, breath,” whispered Dane, his eyes on something only he could see. “I am slain by …”
His breath rasped once, then stopped.
Shouts. A door opening. Running footsteps.
She stared down at Dane’s frozen, disfigured face, at the bright drops of blood on his white, still lips.
Dripping onto his face?
She blinked with shock, suddenly aware of a terrible stinging, burning in her chest. It was so … Hard. To. Breathe. What was happening? She looked down.
Oh, no.
For a heart-stopping moment, she stared at the pulsing crimson stain on her sweater.
“Michael …” she whispered. Then the notes of the Rachmaninoff began to spin before her eyes. Faster and faster. She tried to move her fingers.
So heavy.
So cold.
Her sweater now soaked with blood.
Not Dane’s blood. Her own.
* * *
“Sprite! Maggiegirl! Can you hear me?”
She was swimming in a dark blue fog. Somewhere, a voice. Beeping sounds. Pain. The fog was growing darker …
“Maggie! It’s Finn. It’s Dad! Please, squeeze my hand, talk to me.”
Dad? Fingers hurting so much. She tried to focus, tried to think. Tried not to sink into the blue.
“Your colonel is on his way. You’re in the hospital. Hold on. Hold on for him. For me.”
Michael. She tried to open her eyes. Too heavy. Stones on her lids. On her chest. Try to move your fingers. Can’t. Please no. Not my hands. Don’t take my music. Not again. The cobalt fog pulled her down.
An echo of a man’s scream shattered the fog. The loft! She forced the word to her lips. “Robbie?”
“He’s alive, Maggie. And the mother and her baby are fine. But Dane didn’t make it. That’s all I know.”
A large, warm hand, stroking her forehead. Comfort, safety. Like when she was a little girl. Sleep.
A woman’s voice, murmuring. Mother? No. Gigi. Humming music close to her ear. Rachmaninoff. She struggled to open her eyes. I’m afraid, Gigi.
Swimming
down, down into the deep blue fog.
Flashes of light. She could not breathe.
“Dammit, Nurse! Nurse!”
From a great distance, an alarm bell.
The sound of running boots, the sudden scent of the mountains enveloping her. Michael’s voice, against her ear. “I’m here! Stay with me, Maggie.”
I want to … for always.
The chords of a rhapsody, so beautiful, lifting her, folding her into the notes.
Music tells our stories …
“Hold on, Maggie! Don’t leave me!”
I don’t want to leave you …
Want to stay.
Stay …
She fell spiraling into the blue.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
HUME, VIRGINIA
FIVE WEEKS LATER
“CAN I OPEN my eyes yet?”
“Patience, ma’am. All will be revealed.” She could tell by the sound of his voice that he’d turned to the Golden. “Woman thinks just because she got shot she should get special treatment.”
Keeping her eyes closed—trusting—Maggie smiled.
“Do you need to stop? Rest?” Michael’s arm was around her waist, holding her close, as they walked slowly over a carpet of soft grass. He’d awakened her in the cabin before dawn, handed her a thermos of hot coffee, and hustled her and Shiloh into the car. They had driven for about half an hour in the gray predawn light when he’d turned into an unmarked dirt lane, parked in a copse of trees, and told her to close her eyes.
“My chest is healing, Michael, so are my fingers. Being with you and Shiloh is exactly where I want to be.”
He drew to a stop. “Okay,” he said against her ear. “Now.”
Very slowly, Maggie opened her eyes.
The sun was just rising over the trees, touching her cheek with warmth and dusting the bare November branches with new gold. They were standing on a small rise, overlooking a valley filling slowly with light—as if liquid sun were being poured into a shallow green bowl. Below her, farms, horses, fields of purple vines. The undulating hills spilled in ever brightening waves toward the distant Blue Ridge Mountains.
“Oh, Michael …”
“Shiloh and I have been planning this surprise since you got out of the hospital.”
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