by T F Allen
“I see.” Harkrider walked toward them, flexing his right hand like he’d been holding something for a long time. “How many have you tried so far?”
“Look, we’re lost,” Hannah said. “We got separated from our group while touring the vineyard.”
“You were walking in the vineyard? That’s not part of the tour. I know that’s not part of the tour. And neither is this house.”
This was exactly the confrontation I’d feared. I could feel Donnie’s anger building. His mind was probably working overtime, deciding how big a threat they might be. If it came to it, I’d scream for them to run. I had no idea if it would help or if Hannah would hear me, but I’d scream anyway.
Sister Mary Elizabeth grabbed Hannah’s shoulder and gently pushed her back. “It’s my fault, sir. I couldn’t keep up with the others, and this woman agreed to stay with me. I made her come to this house once we got lost; it was the only place we could see. I promise we’ll leave as soon as we can. I just need to find a restroom first.”
Harkrider seemed to study their faces. He looked down the hallway where the woman had run. “There’s one downstairs. Come with me.”
He led them back down the stairs and to a door identical to all the others they’d passed during their journey through the mansion. Sister Mary Elizabeth slipped inside while Hannah waited for her in an open area near the study. Harkrider kept her company, arms folded, shoulders raised, his entire body posed like he was trying to make her uncomfortable. It wasn’t working. She’d already shifted into investigation mode. If the nun was smart, she’d take her sweet time pretending to go potty so Hannah could do some digging.
This Harkrider guy looked mean, but she could sense the nervousness behind his eyes. He drummed his fingers on a nearby console table like he needed to get back to something. The silence in the room was thick, but not so thick she couldn’t slice it with her tongue. “You must be an art collector.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Those paintings in the hall upstairs. They look like ones I’ve seen before.”
“I’m an artist. They’re all mine.”
She tried to look impressed. “Really? But they seem so familiar. I saw a bit of Kandinsky in a few of them, and maybe even a hint of Michael Delacroix.”
The muscles in Harkrider’s jaw flexed. “You’re looking at them wrong. I’m developing my own style.”
“Come on. Everyone has influences. There’s nothing wrong with mimicking the masters when you’re starting out.”
“I’m not mimicking anyone. I have plenty of ideas of my own.” Harkrider smiled when he spoke, but his hand was balled into a fist so tight it looked painful. He tucked it behind his hip. “I’m going for something completely different.”
Hannah was getting to him; she could see it just as clearly as a sign from the Universe. She also saw a knife handle sticking out of a sheath connected to his belt. No artist she ever interviewed carried a knife on his belt. But seeing it didn’t stop her. “I’m a huge fine art lover, but I can’t afford to collect them. I’d love to own an original Delacroix, though. You know he lives in San Francisco.”
“I know.”
“I can’t believe what they’re saying about him after what happened in Chicago. Did you hear about it?”
“About the crime he committed?”
“No. I mean how the painting he destroyed was a forgery.”
Harkrider’s mouth opened slightly, but he didn’t make a sound.
“Someone must have stolen the real Jolene and replaced it with a copy. And the only person who could tell was the original artist. His stunt actually exposed the forgery. Talk about a great story.”
“Isn’t that something.” Harkrider looked away, obviously trying to mask his reaction, but it was too late. Hannah smelled the envy seeping through his pores. And like any good interviewer, she tried to feed that envy.
“Can you imagine what an original Delacroix must be worth now? It makes me wish I’d bought one before he was famous.”
I was truly scared for Hannah now. She didn’t know what kind of monster she was poking. At any moment he could decide to take them. Or worse, Cole might suggest something more drastic.
She reached for her crystal charm—as if that could protect her—and rolled it between her fingers. “You don’t happen to own one of his, do you?”
Harkrider didn’t speak for several moments. Instead he seemed to chew on her words while his stare wandered over her body. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a more sinister tone. “What do you care? I thought you came here for the wine.” He moved in closer, too close to be misunderstood. “You are here for the wine, right?”
She could smell turpentine on his clothes. Turpentine and sweat. Whatever he’d been doing before they interrupted him, he must have been at it for days without showering or even combing his hair. His physical presence might have intimidated others, but it took more than a tall frame and stinky clothes to scare her.
She lifted her chin and matched his stare. “What else would I be here for?”
The powerful flush of a commode echoed through the ground floor and ended the stalemate between them. Sister Mary Elizabeth came out of the bathroom seconds later. “I feel much better now. Thank you.”
Harkrider wouldn’t shift his stare away from Hannah. “I guess you’ll be going now.”
“Yeah, I guess we will.”
CHAPTER 23
After Donnie showed the women out the front door, I stayed inside the mansion and watched them through a window in the foyer. But I wasn’t alone. Donnie watched from another window. He saw them sharing looks, talking low and fast, taking turns sneaking glances at the mansion as they walked away. I worried Hannah had taken their conversation too far, that she’d played her hand too strongly against a man who didn’t like being challenged.
“Maybe they were just lost,” he said.
Anyone else might have thought he was talking to himself. But I knew better.
“They don’t even know him. There’s no way.”
I knew Cole was busy making his case. Once the women disappeared into the vineyard, Donnie turned and ran up the stairs. I rode along in his mind. I needed to know if he considered them a nuisance or a threat. He bounded up the stairs with long heavy steps, sprinted down the hall, threw a shoulder against Jolene’s door, and crashed into her bedroom.
He found her sitting in a chair next to her bed. She cupped her elbows with each hand and rocked back and forth on the edge of the seat. Her face looked emotionless, like always, but he didn’t trust what he saw. “What did you say to those women?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure? They were trying to find you. Maybe they wanted to finish their conversation.”
“I didn’t say anything. They didn’t see me. Not my face, anyway.”
The skin around her eye had turned an even deeper shade of purple. After all this time, she still couldn’t take a punch. One look at her face and those women would have run straight to the cops. He moved in closer, just like he’d done with the blond woman. “Did you tell them who you are?”
Jolene looked at the dark curtains covering her window. “I said nothing.”
She was in every way a weak and broken woman. Donnie couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her scream or cry. Over the last seven years, he must have drained her emotional well completely. Jolene was nothing to him now, as invisible as he once was to his own parents. A failed experiment. She had no reason to lie. Long ago she’d given up any hope of getting away from this place.
He paced around the room. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” But he knew that wasn’t true.
She’s not your problem. It’s Delacroix and those women you need to worry about.
Even though several hours had passed since I’d heard Cole’s voice, it still shocked me when he spoke again. The thought of someone else watching through the same eyes as me and speaking with a voice only Donnie and I could hear—if that seemed
weird to me, it must have seemed impossible to the rest of the world. But still, I heard Cole’s voice.
So did Donnie. He treated it more seriously than I expected. He gave it more weight than what he saw with his eyes, and he trusted it more than any person he knew.
“Stay here and lock all the doors,” he said. “I’m taking his lunch today.”
Thirty minutes later, Donnie slid the tray under the door to Michael’s cell. The lazy artist lay on the bed, facing his unfinished painting. He stared at it like it was his only job in the world. Donnie couldn’t understand why life had to be so unfair, giving Delacroix the ability to effortlessly paint masterpieces while he had to struggle and sweat. He kicked the barred gate and made it rattle against the lock. “Get up, Delacroix.”
Delacroix didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. This just wasn’t right. After wasting half the day, his prisoner didn’t get a choice here. No one had the right to ignore him. He reached into his pocket, grabbed the remote, and pushed the button.
The charge was so intense he felt the electricity pulse through the air between them. Delacroix vaulted off the bed and tumbled to the floor, his arms and legs twitching. When the shock seemed to subside, he grabbed at the collar and curled into a fetal position. He was shaking, or shivering—Donnie couldn’t tell which. It was all the same to him.
“This isn’t a vacation. You’ve got a deadline.”
Delacroix’s hands covered his face. He spoke through his fingers. “I need to wait until it’s dry.”
Donnie grabbed his keys and worked furiously at the lock. He threw the door open and rushed to the painting on the easel. He ran his hand over the canvas. “You’re full of shit. What are you trying to pull?”
The artist tried to get to his knees but fell back to the ground. Donnie could see it beginning. Delacroix wasn’t strong in body or spirit like himself. If he didn’t get painting soon, he’d miss the deadline and become as useless as Jolene.
“If you’re stalling so your rescuers can get here, you can stop. I took care of them this morning.”
Delacroix pulled himself to a sitting position. “My rescuers?”
“The cute blonde with the attitude? Don’t play dumb. She’s probably your girlfriend.”
Delacroix shook his head. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“This woman knows you. She said your name. She said your name in my house.”
“Many people know my name. Doesn’t mean I know them.”
This wasn’t working. As lazy and self-consumed as Delacroix was, Donnie suspected he might be telling the truth. But Cole had promised something was wrong.
He tried again: “You’re a religious man, right? Do you know any nuns?”
I fought to stay quiet inside Donnie’s head, but I wanted to warn Michael not to react. He probably didn’t connect Hannah to Donnie’s description of her, but when he heard the word nuns, he must have thought about Sister Mary Elizabeth.
To his credit, Michael’s face stayed emotionless. If anything, he looked confused—a look he was practiced at giving. “Do I know any nuns? What kind of question is that?”
“Just answer the—” Donnie swung at the air. Cole’s voice had fed his paranoia, and now he was acting carelessly. He’d already told Delacroix too much. For all the artist knew, this cell might have been located in a desert or under a mountain. Now he knew there was a house nearby—a house Donnie owned. He was slipping, and this time it was his own damn fault.
He closed his eyes and held his breath. He held it as long as he could, keeping his body as still as possible, hoping Cole would speak again. I could feel him reaching out inside his mind, begging for a sign or an answer. But nothing would come.
Finally he gave up and exhaled. Cole had gone silent again. He’d have to handle things himself.
“No one is coming to help you, so you’d better get busy.” He raised his hand and showed Delacroix the remote. “Or I’ll push this thing until the batteries go dead.”
CHAPTER 24
One hour inside Donnie’s head was more than I could take. It was too hot, too loud, and way more crowded than it should have been. I rushed into Michael’s cell and tried to help him to his feet. He was still weak and confused, and in no condition to paint.
I worried for him. And I worried for Hannah and Sister Mary Elizabeth. No one could know what Donnie might do if he suddenly decided Michael wasn’t worth the effort or if he caught the women sneaking around his property again. He sat on a stool just outside the barred door, watching with a hunger I knew he could never satisfy. I could feel his envy bleed through the bars when Michael picked up his brush.
Even as he started to paint, Michael couldn’t give the image his full attention. He glanced at Donnie each time he picked up more color from his palette, wondering what kind of crazy question he might fire at him next. He tried—and I helped him—to focus on Jolene, on the miracle that she was still alive. On the hope that one day she might be free from the horrors of what happened to her in this place. And that thought helped him keep painting.
Donnie sat with his chin perched on the meaty part of his palm. His elbow rested on his thigh. The pose reminded me of Rodin’s Thinker. We both knew Donnie wouldn’t learn anything by watching. Michael’s talent wasn’t something he could teach or explain. Once Donnie finally realized this, Michael wouldn’t be anything but a reminder of his own limitations. Cole would argue he’d been cheated or lied to. And I’d already seen how Donnie reacted to people he thought were liars.
It was already midafternoon. Midnight was coming. I had to get moving.
Even though Donnie and his remote sat just outside Michael’s cell, I decided to leave him. Rising through the trapdoor and into the gaze of the afternoon sun, I looked across the landscape of the Harkrider Vineyard. The evenly spaced rows, the gently rolling hills, the mansion and the winery in the distance—all of it looked so perfect and still. Somewhere inside I knew it wouldn’t stay this way much longer.
I closed my eyes and thought about the nun and the reporter. Focus. Lock. Pull.
The smell of sawdust greeted me before I could open my eyes. Below me, people pushed carts filled with cans of paint, wrenches, sandpaper, light switches, and cordless drills. Workers wearing orange vests offered advice and pointed customers toward the next item on their shopping list. I watched it all while sitting on boxes piled high on a row of shelves. It took a few seconds before I spotted Sister Mary Elizabeth and Hannah. They were pointing at a section stocked with ladders and arguing as loudly as I’d ever heard them.
“That will never work,” the sister said. “They’re much too heavy.”
Hannah knocked on the leg of one of the ladders. “Hello? It’s aluminum. We can carry this easily.”
“I don’t think these are tall enough. What does that say—twenty-four feet?”
Hannah grabbed the rungs of the longest ladder. “This will get the job done. Here, catch the other end when I lower it.”
I knew their visit to the mansion had taken a dangerous turn, but I didn’t think they’d react by shopping for home improvement supplies. I glided down to the floor and into Sister Mary Elizabeth’s mind as she helped Hannah load the ladder on their extra-large pull cart. They laid it next to a pack of bungee cords, two small but powerful LED flashlights, a flat-head screwdriver, and a set of bolt cutters. She couldn’t believe they were buying all of this. More than that, she couldn’t believe she was going along with Hannah’s plan.
“You know we could be completely wrong about him,” she said.
“That was no housekeeper.” Hannah pulled the cart toward the front of the store. “She was wearing a dress. And she was running.”
“Maybe he was protecting a girlfriend. Or maybe she’s married and cheating. There are dozens of reasons he might have said what he said.”
Hannah stopped the cart. “He lied to us.”
“And we lied to him. God help me, I lied to him first.”
“It’s so much mo
re than that. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
Of course she knew what Hannah was talking about. It was the unspoken bond that had kept them together since they first met in Mr. Thatcher’s office. Hannah didn’t believe in God, and Sister Mary Elizabeth didn’t believe in a living, speaking universe. But somehow they both received the same message about Mr. Harkrider. After sneaking into the mansion, meeting him, smelling him, and getting thrown out of his house, they both knew something wasn’t right. “You think he’s hiding something.”
“A big something. And that woman is the key to finding out what it is. She could be his mother for all we know.”
“Are you willing to get arrested?”
“If that’s what it takes,” Hannah said. “I know he’s hiding Delacroix in that house. I saw a dead bolt on one of the doors. Delacroix is in there. I’m sure of it.”
Sister Mary Elizabeth wanted to believe her, but fear held her back. “What if we called Captain Tuttle—”
Hannah cut her off. “You heard what he said. They’re still chasing after Delacroix’s car south of the city. Remember how they treated us when we mentioned Harkrider? They thought we were crazy. What are we going to tell him now? That Harkrider is a suspicious jerk?” She shook her head. “We can’t call until we dig up solid proof—or if we’re lucky, an eyewitness account of what he’s doing in that mansion.”
Sister Mary Elizabeth was shaking. Breaking into the same house twice in one day, sneaking around with a nosy reporter based on little more than a hunch—this wasn’t how she thought she’d be helping Michael when she boarded that plane to San Francisco. But they were chasing after a ghost. No one had any idea where Michael was, including the police. All they had was their faith. It was the only thing keeping them going.
“I hope you brought enough money,” she said.
“Operating expenses.” Hannah waved her credit card in the air. “I’ll make sure my editor reimburses me.”
In the parking lot, Sister Mary Elizabeth helped Hannah secure the ladder to the roof of the SUV with the bungee cords. She knew they must’ve looked ridiculous to anyone passing by. A nun and a skinny blonde wrestling with a ladder was a surefire opening to a barstool joke.