GODGODGOD. “TJ, honey?” She touched his wet face.
The child whimpered and stirred slowly. She tried to shift her body and saw that his fingers were locked in the loose knit of her soaked sweater.
An icy wave washed against her bare feet.
She tried to sit up. What mattered now was getting TJ to some warmth. The rain was lighter, almost gone, they would be able to—
The sound of the engine reached her over the surge of the sea and a new fear lurched in her chest.
Dane!
Coming for them.
No time to think.
She ignored the pain in her arm and jumped to her feet.
Hurry.
Her eyes searched the darkness.
Down the coast, less than half a mile, flashing lights. The harbor. Behind her, a massive wall of shining stone and jagged boulders. In front of her, the churning sea.
Not the sea. Not again.
The engine was louder, closer.
She thought she saw a shape, lighter than the darkness, on the crest of the wave.
Do something.
She turned to the child, whispered, helped him to stand.
Together they stumbled toward the rocks.
He fell in the darkness and began to whimper.
She picked him up and tried to run across the sand.
A scraping sound behind her.
The boy was so heavy. Her legs were too slow, like in a child’s dream, and she couldn’t run. She staggered and fell to her knees and began to cry.
TJ’s fingers touched her cheek and pointed. They’d made it to the rocks. She gripped his fingers and wedged him behind a rain-black boulder.
“You’ll be okay,” she told him. “Just stay here. Don’t make a sound.” The irony of her words struck her and she pressed her lips together.
The child’s frightened eyes held onto hers.
In the darkness, a small boat engine whirred, coughed, and stopped. A louder scraping sound. Silence.
She looked down at the child. Dear God, she thought, I can’t lead him to you.
She had to get Dane away from her godson.
She whispered into the boy’s ear. Then she crouched down and crawled away from him, as quickly as she dared, over the rocks.
Slippery, sharp, slicing into her feet. Just don’t make a sound.
When she was twenty yards away from the child, she pressed against a boulder and waited.
Very slowly, she shifted until she could see the beach.
Nothing.
And then a hand. Ten feet away.
She smothered a cry.
Then she heard the voice. Sinister, whispery, yet finding her over the sound of the sea.
“Juliet.”
She pushed her knuckles into her mouth.
A click. The beam of a powerful flashlight speared the night like a searchlight in a prison yard.
Stay down, TJ, she prayed. He won’t find you if you just—
The life jacket. TJ’s fluorescent orange jacket.
The beam crawled like a terrible creature over the rocks, blinding, hunting her, moving inexorably toward the boulders where the little boy crouched in fear.
Any second now, Dane would see the orange jacket.
She stood up and walked toward Dane.
The yellow eyes locked on hers. The side of his face was grotesque with dried blood.
She was shaking so much she could hardly move, but she forced herself to stand directly in his path.
“Goddamn you to hell, you bastard.” Her words hurled at him. “I won’t let you take him. You’ll have to kill me first.”
He dropped the flashlight to the sand, plunging them into uncertain shadow. “I have more pleasurable plans for you, my Juliet.” His hand shot up and gripped the tangled wet hair at the nape of her neck.
She cried out in fear and tried to twist away. He hit her hard across the face. Pain exploded in a bursting light behind her eyes. She kicked out blindly, but he caught her foot and swept her legs from under her so that she fell to the sand.
Then he was on top of her, huge and hard, the heavy body hurting, pinning her down.
Her scream was silenced as he caught her jaw in his vise-like fingers and forced her chin up.
“I’m going to hurt you, Juliet,” he whispered, his face close to hers.
She tried to turn her face away, but his lips found hers, brutal and demanding, forcing her mouth open. She tasted blood on her lips.
Somehow her arms were free and beating against him and his hands were on the waist of her jeans and she felt the material tear and then his strong fingers were moving down over her stomach.
“Please, please,” she sobbed. “Don’t do this.”
“We must hurry,” he said against her skin. “My priestly vestments await.” His voice was strange and frightening.
Frantic with terror, she struggled beneath him, clutching for his hands.
Something hard against her hip. Brian’s army knife!
Dane’s breath was coming in hoarse gasps. With every ounce of concentration she pushed her hand into the tight jeans pocket.
She felt the shock of his fingers invading her, searching and brutal. “You are mine now, Juliet,” he whispered. “I will dance barefoot on our wedding day, and lead the apes in hell.”
She screamed again, trembling with revulsion.
Her frantic fingers, slippery with blood, found the knife. Closed over it.
Pulled it free.
He made a sound, slamming her face sideways into the sand with a sickening impact and knocking the breath from her lungs.
Somehow, she managed to hold onto the knife.
There was a great roaring inside her head. Locked in his deadly embrace, she heard his voice as if from a great distance. “I will be your last lover.”
She shouted and twisted desperately beneath him, hitting out wildly until she felt the knife rip into his body.
“Bitch!” Iron fingers grasped her wrist, tearing the knife cruelly from her grip.
She struggled to face him, dimly aware that he was on his knees above her, arm raised, the small steel blade flashing silver in the wavering beam of the flashlight.
“Mama! No!”
The child’s cry pierced the night air, clear and sharp as the rain.
Dane’s arm froze in the air.
Frantic barking tore the night. Sudden shouts from the left. “Ici! Over here!”
“It is not finished between us, Juliet,” he whispered in her ear. Then the terrible weight sprang from her body as beams of light cut like bright swords through the darkness, searching, finding her.
She sat up, shielding her eyes. Pulling at her jeans, she tried to stand.
Somewhere on the water the sound of an engine filled the blackness.
She blinked, struggled to focus through the blur of her tears.
The Golden was loping toward her across the wet sand. TJ and Beckett were running just behind him.
Michael? She must be dreaming.
She took a step. Fell to her knees.
She held out her hands.
The Golden was the first to reach her. “Shiloh,” she whispered, tangling her fingers in the warmth of his coat, burying her face against his body.
“Maggie.” Beckett dropped to his knees in front of her. Her eyes registered the white bandages across his left eye as he pulled her roughly against him.
“Michael, stop him.” Her voice was scratchy with confusion.
She was shivering violently. Beckett gripped her shoulders.
“Maggie, listen to me. Brian is okay. Your son is safe.”
A small body slammed against her legs, almost knocking her over, and wrapped wiry arms tightly around her.
“Mag-gee,” said the little boy into her sweater. The small halting voice scraped from the long-dormant throat muscles. She thought it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. She forgot everything but the sight and feel of the boy, alive and reaching out to h
er. She simply wrapped her arms around him and rocked him back and forth. The tears welled, and something broken inside her finally began to mend.
“TJ, my hero,” she whispered.
“Her-o,” rasped the exhausted but satisfied child.
Beckett took her face in his hand and tilted her chin until she was looking into his eyes. “Your son is fine,” he said. “His wife, too. And the baby, still safe in his mama’s womb. They’re at the Hyannis police station, waiting for you to call.”
“Brian,” she murmured, as the words penetrated the cold fear that still gripped her like a black vise.
Beckett helped her to stand and stepped back. They stared at each other, while the boy and the Golden pressed tightly against her body. She swayed, holding them close. Beckett smoothed the wet dark hair back from her forehead. “Bad hair day,” he said.
“Michael…”
And then he was folding her into his arms, and she felt herself silenced by his mouth. His lips were cold and tasted of rain. She could feel the wild thudding of his heart through her soaked sweater. “Oh, Michael,” she murmured, and clung to him like a child just rescued from a nightmare.
“I’ve got you,” he said into her hair.
She was vaguely aware of Shiloh’s nose, pushing against her leg. Then her knees gave way and Beckett caught her as she collapsed against him. Ignoring his own injuries, he gathered her in his arms and, with the little boy in the bright orange vest and the three-legged dog walking beside him, carried her as if she weighed no more than a seashell across the storm-swept beach toward the flashing blue lights of the police cars.
I’ve got you.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
AIX-EN-PROVENCE. NIGHT, JULY 11
“Yes, Brian’s fine, Luze. Truly. I just spoke with him for twenty minutes. The Hyannis police are all going to his club tonight. Knowing that you and Brian and TJ are okay means everything to me.”
Except for Zach...
Her friend’s voice was warm and comforting in her ear. “Yes, I’ll be home late tomorrow.” She glanced at the bolted connecting door to Michael Beckett’s room. “There’s no reason to stay here now.”
Safe once more in her hotel room in Aix-en-Provence, Maggie sat with her legs curled under her in front of the fire. In spite of the warm white robe wrapped around her body, she continued to shiver uncontrollably. Don’t think about Dane.
She looked across the room. The rain had blown away as suddenly as it had come. Late moonlight shone through the French doors, spilling in a silvery river over the glimmering grand piano. Just three hours ago, she had been on the beach in Cassis…
“No, Luze, Michael Beckett is not my colonel. But the Hyannis detective told me that ‘some army fella from south of the Mason-Dixon’ had agents guarding Brian and Laura around the clock since the beginning.”
She stopped speaking. Where was he?
The jangle of Lucy’s bracelets sounded clearly across the ocean. Maggie sighed. “Of course Bones asked about his father. I told him the basics but I want to tell him about Zach in person.” She closed her eyes and felt the fire’s heat on her eyelids. “Luze, the last time I saw Zach, we were on Victor’s yacht. What if I’ve found Zach only to lose him again?”
A sharp knock at the door interrupted her, and her heart skipped sickeningly beneath her breast. Dane? No, it had to be Michael. Please let it be Michael.
“I think the answers are knocking at my door. Yes, love you too, bye.”
She leaned her forehead against the door and whispered, “Michael?”
“His better half.” Simon Sugarman’s voice. She opened the door.
Immediately she found herself enveloped in a huge bear hug. “Can’t stay, Doc, gotta get to the airport. But I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to my favorite lady.” He looked down at her. “This hotel gives you these great robes?”
“Simon!” Her hands pressed on his solid chest, pushing him away.
“Still angry with me, huh?”
“I thought we were friends,” she said.
The dark eyes studied her. “We are friends, Doc. But—” he shook his cannonball head—“I always told you, in my business, you do what you—”
“Gotta do,” she finished for him. “Why didn’t I see it? It was you, your people, who searched my home and shop after Johnny died. You took his computer, the papers from his briefcase. You needed to know what my husband knew.”
Simon walked to the table and poured two stiff whiskeys. “Don’t you know the story of the scorpion, Maggie? He rescues a tiny animal from a raging river, then stings it to death when they reach the shore.” He swallowed the alcohol, watching her face. “It’s my nature, Maggie. Don’t ask me to apologize for it.”
“The scorpion just uses his nature as a damned excuse. People I care about almost died, Simon. I need some answers. Did Dane get away?”
He looked at her sharply, nodded. “You haven’t seen Beckett?”
“Not—since the beach. He put me in the ambulance and left.” She touched his arm. “He went after Dane, didn’t he?”
“Mike could have stopped Dane on the beach. But you were hurt. He had to make a choice. Couldn’t change his nature, either. I didn’t count on that. Let it be, Doc.”
He looked at his watch. “They’re holding my plane for DC. I’ve got ten minutes. Ask your questions.”
She took a deep swallow of fiery whiskey, ignoring the pain in her arm. “Where are TJ and Zach?”
“Medivaced by ’copter to the trauma unit here in Aix. The kid’s okay,” he added, seeing her face, “thanks to you. He’s going to be fine. The kid’s a trooper. Scared, groggy, some hypothermia. But talking, Maggie. A few words, anyway. The docs are making him take it real slow. But he sure found a way to ask for you.” He looked at her. “I told TJ that I was Sofia’s friend—and he told me what he remembers about his mother’s death.”
A silver knife flashed in the darkness of her mind. Maggie shuddered. “Dane killed Sofia,” she told him, “and threatened her child so he would remain silent.” Her eyes filled with tears. “What a horrible burden for a little boy.”
“Here, dammit, you’re freezing. Come over by the fire.” Simon took her arm and caught her sudden wince. “You ought to be in that hospital yourself, Doc.”
She pulled away from him. “Why aren’t you telling me about Zach?”
“He was hurt, Maggie. Trying to stop Orsini.”
“No!” she cried. “He told me they were very close. Victor wouldn’t have hurt Zach.”
“Details are sketchy. But there was a fight on the yacht. Zach was shot.”
Just like Michael. She felt the ice close around her heart. “Is he alive, Simon?”
“Yeah. It’s bad, Maggie. But Zach made it through the surgery. He’s alive. Orsini could have killed him. But he didn’t.”
“Zach insisted that Victor was like a father. You haven’t found Orsini?”
“Probably hiding in those islands where he spent the last year on his yacht. Porquerolles, Port-Cros, who knows? There are hundreds of Mediterranean islands, thousands of hidden inlets.” He stopped, looking at her ashen face. “But you know that already.”
“Victor was in the Porquerolles? Oh God. It’s where Johnny died.”
“Your husband must have tracked Orsini to those islands. We’ll find Orsini, Doc. Got to. Because there was a king’s fortune of stolen art and music on that yacht, all gone when we got there. And that art was just the tip of the iceberg. God knows where the rest of his collection is hidden.”
She gazed at him in confusion. “Art? All this, because of missing art?”
Simon shrugged. “And music. Orsini was selling pieces to private collectors, to finance acts of terror against us. The only things left behind on that yacht were a smashed violin, a small forgotten painting, and…”
“Zach.”
“Yeah. Victor just left Law there, bleeding all over the floor of the salon.”
She remained stonily
quiet.
“Zach Law will be okay, Maggie.”
Sugarman poured another whiskey for himself. He downed the burning liquid in one long swallow. “Gotta blow. Dane isn’t finished with us yet. We think he’s headed for New York, but we don’t know what he’s planning.”
“Simon. Something Dane said to me… on the beach. But I can’t remember.” She felt the shudder of her body. “It just won’t come.”
“Think hard. You’ve got to remember, Maggie, it’s important.” He leaned closer to her, handed her a small printed card. “Really important. As soon as you know, call me here.”
Simon stopped at her door. “You deserve to know—I found the journal Sofia hid. Priceless, she gave us everything. Orsini’s investors, clients, bank accounts, hired guns. Dynamite stuff.”
So much hurt, all because of the names in a small notebook. “Where was it, Simon?”
“Right in front of our noses. Sofia’s boy had it all along. The journal had been rolled like a cee-gar and tucked into TJ’s stuffed bear.” He hesitated at the door. “Did Fee ever send you anything? A music manuscript, maybe? Maybe she talked about it?”
“She wrote that she’d taken a valuable manuscript from Victor, but I never saw it.”
“Then it’s still out there, somewhere.” He gave her a brief salute and closed the door behind him.
Maggie stood alone in the silent room staring into the fire, hugging the thick robe to her shivering body and trying to shut out the images of wild seas and a silver knife and Dane’s grotesque smiling face, so close to hers.
You’re only alive because I let you live, my Juliet.
* * *
In the small safe house in the hills north of Marseilles, the man known as Dane stared at his image in the cracked mirror over the sink.
The long fair hair, the mustache and diamond earring were gone. The dark-browed face that looked back at him wore thick tinted glasses and the tri-cornered European priest’s cap called a biretta. The purple bruise on the side of his face was completely hidden by the theatre make-up and the thick, curling gray hair.
Almost time for your next performance, he told himself, adjusting the collar of the long black cassock once more. Pain shot through his burned hand. He cursed and reached for the new black leather gloves. Hunching his shoulders, he watched his reflection in the mirror. Perfect. He nodded and turned his attention to the passports and tickets scattered on the table.
The Lost Concerto Page 33