Brush With Death

by Lind, Hailey

  Skittering around a corner into the Chapel of the Beatitudes, I saw a green Halloween mask lying on the floor. It was not the warty one my attacker had been wearing, nor was it the elongated one the grave robber had worn the other night with Cindy. What—was there a costume wholesaler down the street? And was I dealing with one guy with a mask fetish, or could there be a whole club of graveyard lunatics running around in Halloween disguises?

  And where the hell was the exit?

  Calm down, Annie. Now was not the time to panic. Cursing my lamentable navigation skills, I crouched behind a winged sculpture in the Garden of Peace to try to get my bearings. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the flash of a tall figure and took off again, darting into the newer mausoleum wing, with its soaring cathedral ceilings and shiny pink marble crypts. Stars winked through the atrium high overhead, but the sound of footsteps spurred me on. I dashed back across the balcony connecting the new addition to the older part of the columbarium, hoping to lose my pursuer in the maze of short hallways and dark alcoves. Skidding to a halt in the Alcove of Repose, I squatted behind a baroque fountain flanked by two white stone benches.

  Taking care not to make any noise, I inched Cindy Tanaka’s map out of my bib pocket. From the Alcove of Repose it was a quick jaunt down the hall, past the bathroom, over to the stairs to the Main Cloister and the exit. I memorized the route, shoved the map back into my pocket, and listened for my pursuer.

  All was quiet.

  I crept toward the alcove doorway, looked about, and darted down the hall. I had reached the small bathroom when something hit my back, shoving me violently through the door, where I fell to the hard tile floor. The door slammed behind me, and in the pitch-black I thought I heard the jangle of keys and the sound of metal scraping and clicking. I threw myself against the door, but it was locked from the outside.

  Trapped like a rat in the bathroom of a columbarium. It lacked dignity.

  On the plus side, I was alive and only slightly worse for wear. My labored breathing echoed in the absolute darkness. I swung my arms blindly in the air until my fingertips found the string pull for the overhead light. I switched it on and, sight restored, spied a window behind the toilet. Climbing onto the toilet seat, I examined the small colored glass window of quatrefoil design that overlooked the Main Cloister at least twenty feet below. Generations of sloppy paint jobs had sealed it shut and I had no tools with which to pry it open. And even if I shattered the beautiful glass, I would break a leg—or more likely my neck—if I jumped to the hard tile floor below.

  The window was out. The bathroom’s floor was cement, the walls sturdy plaster. No help there. I always carried my keys in my overall pocket, but the master was of no use on the exterior lock.

  My cell phone! I was becoming a true convert to technology. For the second time that day I dialed 911 and waited for the operator to answer and send the troops to my rescue.

  And waited. I glanced at the readout: No Signal. I moved to another spot and I tried again. Still no go. I held it high, held it low. Cutting-edge cellular technology had been foiled by old-fashioned plaster walls, vast tile floors, and banks of metal compartments.

  I pressed an ear against the bathroom door, but heard nothing. Maybe the ghoul had left and I could curl up in the corner and sleep until the cleaning crew showed up in the morning and let me out.

  Or maybe the ghoul was summoning reinforcements to draw and quarter me. Did I really want to hang around and find out what a man who liked to wear Halloween masks at night—while running around graveyards and columbaria no less—was capable of?

  There must be a way out of here. I looked up. The ceiling was composed of cracked glass tiles, similar in size and shape to acoustic tiles. A dim light illuminated the translucent ceiling from behind, suggesting open space beyond. It seemed a bit dicey, but what other options did I have? On the bright side, if I fell it would be a quick trip to the crematorium.

  I stepped onto the toilet seat, took a deep breath, and hoisted myself onto the sturdy porcelain sink. I steadied myself with one hand on the tulip-shaped light fixture over the sink and slowly lifted my right knee onto the old-fashioned towel dispenser, the kind made of steel that housed a cloth towel on an endless loop. Balancing myself gingerly, I brought my left knee up to join the right. The towel dispenser groaned. Good thing I’d held off on that third slice of pizza.

  From this precarious perch I was able to reach up to the glass tiles overhead. Pressing the fingertips of one hand against one of the larger tiles, I pushed it up and to the side. I poked my head through the hole and saw a large, open space formed by the columbarium’s roof above and the glass ceilings of the alcoves below. A foot-wide metal beam separated the ceiling tiles of one room from those of its neighbor, and provided access to the overhead lights.

  If I were careful I could crawl along the beam, remove a glass ceiling tile from another room, drop down through the hole, and escape.

  If I weren’t careful, I would crash through the glass ceiling tiles and die on the hard stone floor. Or be shredded by the broken glass, horribly disfigured, and forced to wear a Halloween mask for the rest of my life.

  Reaching my arms and shoulders through the opening, I placed my hands, palms down, on the metal beam, lifted my left foot onto the tulip light above the sink, and hoisted myself up. My actions dislodged the glass lamp shade, which shattered loudly on the concrete floor. I slid the glass tile back into place and began to crawl.

  The string of lights that illuminated the glass ceilings of the chapels below guided me along the beam. I moved swiftly, exhilarated at my acrobatic escape but uncertain where I was heading. As far as I could tell, I was somewhere in the vicinity of the Chapel of the Allegories when I heard voices. I peered over the edge of the beam and saw two human-sized shapes in the room below. The beautiful pastel-colored glass ceiling tiles obscured their masked faces, and try as I might I could not make out what they were saying. Fearful of attracting attention, I remained frozen, hoping they would soon leave.

  Twenty minutes later, they were still there. What are they waiting for? I wondered. My knees started to ache, so I rested my weight on my elbows, my rear in the air.

  My cell phone shrilled.

  Aw, geez! The figures below looked about. I pulled the phone from my pocket and threw it as far as I could. The vivid beats of Oakland’s own Mistah F.A.B. bounced off the glass tiles and echoed through the empty space. The figures in the room below ran off in search of the sound.

  Crawling as rapidly as I dared, I came upon a small ventilation window. I shoved it open and spied a flat roof about five feet below.

  It was now or never.

  Rolling onto my stomach, I backed out the window, feet-first, maneuvered my hips over the ledge, and lowered myself as far as I could to close the distance to the rooftop. Taking a deep breath, I let go, landing on the first-story roof. I stumbled a little, but remained upright, feeling absurdly pleased with myself. I was never any good at PE in school, but give me the proper motivation and I was Wonder Woman.

  When the adrenaline dissipated, I realized that I might be less than Wondrous. I had escaped the columbarium but was now stuck on a roof with a sizable drop to the alley below. I psyched myself up and tried to ignore a sudden visual of my landing butt-first on the asphalt. Even I didn’t have enough padding in my backside to prevent a broken tailbone. Maybe I should have had that third slice of pizza.

  One thing was clear: I couldn’t stay here. I lay down on my stomach, let my legs drop over the edge, and started to inch my hips and rear into space. Easing over the side, I held on to the rim with a death grip and hung by my hands.

  Strong arms grabbed my legs from below and tried to pull me the rest of the way off the roof. I thrashed and kicked and, locating my hair spray in my pocket, reached behind me and spewed Lady Clairol for all I was worth.

  “Aaargh!” my assailant yelled. He let go of me and we both fell backward, he on the hard concrete, I on top of him. I jumped to my
feet, spraying my mace substitute with one hand and flailing with the other, kicking out and trying to land a blow to the groin but instead connecting with his thigh as he rolled into the fetal position at my feet. I couldn’t help but notice that he wore no ghoulish mask.

  “Goddammit, Annie, knock it off!”

  Michael.

  Chapter 8

  Art is much less important than life, but what a poor life without it.

  —Robert Motherwell (1915-1991), American painter

  I admire the idealism of the American abstract expressionists. I especially enjoy how easy it is to forge their work.

  —Georges LeFleur

  I punched him as hard as I could, but only made contact with his bicep. Protecting his head with his arms, Michael looked up at me, his eyes streaming tears. “Annie! It’s me!”

  “I know who it is! You scared the crap out of me!”

  I kicked at him again, but he grabbed my leg so that I was forced to hop on one foot.

  “Knock it off!” Michael scrambled to his feet and hoisted me over his shoulder, carrying me down the alleyway to the street. His shoulder dug into my stomach as he jogged, each jarring step forcing the air out of me. My attempts to inflict bodily injury gave way to the pressing need for oxygen, something that seemed to happen with disturbing frequency whenever I was around Michael, though usually for different reasons.

  He opened his truck door, dumped me in, shoved himself in next to me, fired up the engine, and screeched away from the curb.

  “You good-for-nothing, two-timing, son of a—”

  “Calm down, Annie.”

  “What the hell do you think—”

  “I said calm down!”

  Michael’s voice was sharp and his countenance so grim that I was shocked into silence. In the sporadic illumination of the passing streetlights I noticed his eyes were red and swollen, his elbows were bloodied, and he was breathing as hard as I was. The palms of my hands smarted, I had scraped one knee, and my butt felt bruised.

  The ringside judges awarded me this round by a split decision.

  Michael sped through a maze of quiet residential streets and into the hills of nearby Piedmont. Glancing frequently in the rearview mirror, he finally came to a stop in a pool of light near a pair of closed iron gates that hinted at a large estate beyond. His damp, red eyes scanned the length of the silent street before he turned off the engine and turned on me.

  “What in the hell is going on at that place?” Michael demanded, draping one long arm on the steering wheel.

  “You tell me, Mr. Art Thief.”

  “I told you I wasn’t in the business anymore.”

  “Then what were you doing at the columbarium?”

  “I was trying to do a good deed. Mary called and said she was worried about you working there all by yourself. She asked me to make sure you got home.”

  “How did she get your phone number?” I didn’t know Michael’s number; why did Mary?

  “I gave it to her the other day, for emergencies.” Michael leaned his head back against the headrest. “She said you’d gotten yourself involved in a bit of a mystery. Something about a metal box.”

  “And you raced to my rescue, is that right?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I was afraid you were in danger.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Oh, really? Do you always leave the building by jumping off the roof?”

  I glared at him.

  “I suppose Mary might have been matchmaking again,” Michael mused. “She’s not wild about this Josh person.”

  “Don’t call him that,” I snapped, annoyed because what he said was true. Mary thought Josh’s earnest approach to life was at odds with my suspicious take on the world. “What were you doing in the alley?”

  “Looking for you, what do you think?” he groused. “I tried your cell phone but the first call didn’t go through, and you didn’t answer the second. I was looking for a way to break in when I saw two men in masks running around inside, and then all of a sudden you were climbing out the ventilation window. I was trying to help you, Annie. Is that so hard to believe?”

  “I guess not,” I sighed. Michael X. Johnson had complicated my life on many occasions, but had also saved my neck a time or two at no small risk to his own. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He fixed me with a steady look. “I don’t know what’s going on here, and I have a sense you’re not about to tell me. May I suggest that you at least consider finishing your work at the columbarium during the day, when people who don’t wear masks are around?”

  “I need you to do something for me,” I said, changing the subject.

  “You want a favor? After you sprayed me with toxic chemicals?”

  “It was just hair spray.”

  “And then you kicked me! In a rather private place, too. And don’t tell me you didn’t know what you were doing.”

  “I kicked your thigh. That’s not private.”

  He snorted.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt you. Now, will you do something for me?”

  “Why should I?”

  “I need your help.”

  Curiosity got the better of him, as I suspected it would. “With what?”

  “I want you to find Raphael’s La Fornarina.”

  “It’s in Rome. I forget which museum—maybe the National Gallery? There, all done. Happy to help.”

  “I think it might be here somewhere.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “If you know so much, what do you need me for?”

  “I want you to steal it.”

  Michael gaped at me, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. He shook his head and started up the truck, his expression grim. “You’re certifiable, you know that? I don’t know why I even try.”

  “I’m serious, Michael.”

  “I’m sure you are,” he said as we headed down the posh winding streets of Piedmont. “That’s what scares me.”

  “If the painting’s at the columbarium it would be a cinch for you to abscond with it,” I pointed out.

  “What about the guard dogs and the silent alarms you told me about?”

  “I made those up.”

  “No! You mean there isn’t a pack of vicious hounds waiting to rip my throat out?”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Michael,” I lied. “Besides, that was when I thought you were going to steal something.”

  “And now you want me to steal something?”

  I nodded. “Now that I know you’re not after it.”

  Michael took a deep breath and let it out forcefully. “Before I agree to anything I want you to tell me who those guys in the masks were, and why you felt compelled to leave the columbarium by way of the roof.”

  We halted at the stoplight in front of the Grand Lake Theater. The venerable old movie house featured an enormous 1920s neon sign with a marquee that listed the films showing on one side, and political statements on the other.

  “I don’t know,” I said, distracted by this week’s posting exhorting the citizenry to rise up and demand paper-ballot voting. Paper ballots seemed like a good idea, I thought. It worked for the French. I yawned, suddenly tired.

  “Annie?” Michael prompted.

  “It might have something to do with a box that one of those ghouls stole from a crypt . . .” I trailed off.

  As we skirted Lake Merritt I realized Michael was taking me home. My truck was at the columbarium, I had not packed up my painting supplies, and I had told management to dismantle the scaffolding in the morning. “Hey! I can’t go home! I have to go back!”

  “Sorry, sweetie. That train has left the station.”

  “How am I supposed to get to work tomorrow?”

  “Walk. The exercise’ll do you good.” Michael pulled into the gravel parking area behind my apartment. “Wait until the office opens, gather your stuff while others are around, and don’t go back.”

  I
gave him a mock salute as I climbed out of the truck.

  “Keep yourself safe, Annie,” he said, his voice gentle. “No painting is worth your neck.”

  “But what if La Fornarina really is there somewhere?” I mumbled, then slammed the truck door. I hated it when men got all reasonable and mature when I was still in the peevish stage of a relationship.

  I marched to the front door, let myself in, and locked the solid oak door behind me. Gravel spurted as Michael drove away.

  I spent a restless night, falling asleep at around three in the morning, and slapping at the snooze button when the alarm shrilled at eight. I took a shower and pulled on a clean pair of paint-stained overalls and a long-sleeved T-shirt, then caught my damp hair up in a covered hair band. One great thing about being an artist is that paint doesn’t care how I dress, and most people cut me a lot of slack. Then again, if I didn’t watch out I’d wind up looking like Einstein. People had cut him a lot of slack, too.

  Much as I hated to admit it, Michael was right. I had gotten caught up in something that resulted in me scuttling through the columbarium’s light well and jumping from roofs, and I didn’t even know whether the ghouls were after Louis’ box or an alleged masterpiece. Plus, a young woman was dead. Time to reevaluate the choices I was making. So what if the fate of one of the world’s art treasures lay in my hands? Who did I think I was, a paint-splattered Joan of Arc? What I was supposed to be doing was finishing curtain rods for the Design Center and putting together drawings for a new mural for a mortgage broker’s office in Alameda. Today I would return to the columbarium, retrieve the box, turn it over to the police, and let Frank’s contacts at the FBI worry about whether a priceless piece of Italian cultural heritage was hidden in an Oakland columbarium amidst men who got their kicks wearing Halloween masks.

  I emerged from my apartment to find the skies gray and chilly and smelling of rain. I hoped it would hold off until I got to my truck—I owned several umbrellas, but could never locate one when I needed it.