by T F Allen
She noticed Hannah’s crystal charm dangling from her neck as she leaned over the SUV. Though her faith was misdirected, it was hard not to admire the dedication Hannah gave to everything she did. And her total lack of fear was inspiring. In another time or place, she would have made a great nun.
I was both excited and scared for them. I hoped Hannah would find her answers this time and that Sister Mary Elizabeth would rescue the boy she’d saved from a construction dumpster long ago. But they still didn’t understand who they were up against. Donnie wasn’t fooled by their act. He’d be ready when they decided to come back. And that meant I needed to be ready, too.
The ladder safely secured, they jumped into the SUV and buckled their seat belts. Sister Mary Elizabeth was still scared and worried, but Hannah’s steady presence helped comfort her. She felt the odd shape of Hannah’s smartphone in her pocket. She dug it out and offered it to her.
“Keep it,” Hannah said. “It’s the deadliest weapon I can talk you into carrying.”
“What about you?”
Hannah shifted into drive. “We’ll get that at our next stop. I need to find a place that sells hunting knives.”
CHAPTER 25
They’re coming.
Michael’s hand froze before he could finish another brushstroke. His mouth fell open, and his eyes shifted toward where he thought a small overhead camera might be.
That reporter you met in Chicago. She and Sister Mary Elizabeth are on their way here to save you.
“Sister Mary?” He looked at the empty stool Donnie had kicked over once he finally decided to leave. It lay on its side, inches away from the farthest point he could reach through the bars. He whispered, “When?”
In a few hours. Hopefully before midnight.
Michael had lost touch with his biological clock since he woke up in this cell. The sun never reached him, and the glass-block window only obscured a view of whatever dirt or bedrock hid behind it. He had so many questions, and I wanted to answer them all. I wanted to arm him with enough hope to make it through this most important night of our lives.
He set down his brush, grabbed a tube of paint, and turned away from the easel. He held the paint tube close to his face and pretended to read the label as he whispered, “All the way from Louisiana?”
She loves you. I asked her to come, and she came.
“I can’t believe it. And the reporter?”
She was coming already. I’m guiding her, too.
He picked up another tube and pretended to compare them. “But how? I don’t understand. I’m the only one who hears you.”
I’ve discovered a few new tricks.
Michael smiled. He smiled when he thought about me, and that was enough.
“Are they bringing the cops?”
It’s just them for now.
“That won’t work.” Michael threw down the paint tubes and ran to his bed. He sat and held his face in his hands. “Don’t let them come here by themselves. He’ll kill us all if that happens.”
I won’t let him kill anyone.
“That sweet old lady.” Michael rocked back and forth on the mattress. He couldn’t stay still with all the emotions running through him. Donnie was probably watching through the camera, but he didn’t care. “You have to send them away. Don’t bring them here. It’s better me than her.”
The trapdoor hinges creaked. We both fell silent and listened. Footsteps on the stairs, footsteps in the hallway. Then Jolene appeared at the gate, still in her blue dress. She knelt and passed a dinner tray under the bars. “Donnie wants to know when you’ll be finished.”
Michael looked at the woman he once loved, the woman Donnie tried so hard to destroy before he finally got bored with her. It wounded him to see her like this, still purple and swollen from Donnie’s last punch. If anything went wrong, she’d be the first one he killed. Michael couldn’t bear to see that happen.
Feeling the urgency swell inside him, he jumped from the bed and rushed to the gate so fast she jumped back, out of his reach. God, she was so timid and scared. “I need a favor.”
She wouldn’t look at him. Her chin fell to her chest when he spoke. Maybe this was the way she was now. Donnie had taken away her ability to connect with anyone.
“Listen.” He spoke low and softly, trying to avoid the microphones he knew were hidden nearby. “All I need is one thing—if anything happens, either in here or out there, promise me you’ll run. Run until you find someone, anyone.”
Her face lifted slightly. “What do you mean if anything happens?”
“Say someone tries to come in here.”
“Like those two women?”
Her words stopped his train of thought and knocked it off its tracks. He wondered if I was too late, if my plan had already backfired and Donnie had already killed the reporter and Sister Mary Elizabeth. He grabbed the bars just to have something to squeeze. “You saw them? What happened?”
Her cold blue eyes finally met his, but they formed the stare of someone reading from a teleprompter. “They came to the house earlier. Started snooping around inside. I ran and hid, but Donnie caught up to them. They had a good story—I heard them talking. But they were lying. I think they were looking for you.”
Michael couldn’t believe it. “Was one of them a nun?”
“I heard two voices, but I only saw one woman. She was young. And pretty.” Jolene turned away.
“What did he do?”
“He didn’t hurt them,” she said. “All they did was talk, taking turns lying to each other. I heard them leave through the front door. He let them go, but he didn’t believe their story.”
Michael couldn’t keep his voice to a whisper now. He knew Donnie was watching and listening, but this might be his last chance to warn her. “Promise you’ll run if you see them again. Lead them as far away as you can. Once they find you, they can come back with the police. It’s the only way.”
Jolene stepped toward the gate and came within his reach. She stared at his shock collar, and her eyes shimmered with tears. “You should get back to painting, Michael.” Her words barely registered. He knew she was only saying them for Donnie. Looking at him again, she mouthed the word okay and nodded.
In that moment Michael saw the woman he’d painted years ago. The glow of her skin was unmistakable, and through his eyes she looked like someone who wasn’t born on this earth. She could never see herself the way Michael saw her. He realized that now. He had no choice but to show her by painting it again.
She disappeared down the hallway, like she always did. Michael picked up the paint tubes and looked at the canvas. Time was short, and he had lots of work to do.
CHAPTER 26
I could have rushed to a thousand different places, including two or three that might help Michael’s chances of escaping with his life. But I chose to stay with him a minute longer to feel the creative powers surge through his body, transforming the canvas into a majestic composition of light and color.
Guided by his talented hand, his paintbrush created a bold new layer of imagery that intensified the layer under it and spun the scene in a totally new direction. The scarlet base layer was barely visible now, but its fiery hue warmed every other color on the canvas. Blues held shades of purple deep inside, and yellows cast off rays of orange when the light caught them at the right angle. The painting he’d started in a fit of rage was now a work fueled by hope. But it meant so much more than that to me. It was a reminder of how important it was to protect Michael. If Donnie killed him, the world would lose an artist who could paint like no one before him. And I’d lose my purpose, the only identity I ever had.
Part of me also believed I’d die when Michael took his last breath. It made total sense. I couldn’t remember anything before him, and there’d be nothing left for me after he was gone. Our lives were connected on a level I still couldn’t understand. I knew neither of us could survive without the other.
I stayed as long as I dared and then left. I didn�
��t need to go far—no need to focus, lock, and pull. It took me all of a minute to soar out of the underground cell, dash across the vineyard, and slip inside the top story of the Harkrider mansion.
Donnie sat hunched in front of his computer monitor in the low-lit room he used to spy on Michael. Even before I crawled inside his head, I could feel him turning over the white-hot coals in his mind. Delacroix and those women were planning something. He was sure of it. And not because Cole had warned him. It was a truth he felt deep in his bones.
He scanned backward on the recorded video feed and turned the speaker volume to ten. Delacroix was talking through the bars to Jolene. They stood near the edge of the frame with most of her profile out of view. Their body language told him nothing. It was all about the words passing between them. Donnie had missed most of them while watching in real time. Their hushed voices told him this lazy artist was definitely sharing secrets. He leaned in closer, placing his head between the dual stand speakers on either side of the monitor.
At this volume, static and background noise dominated the audio feed. Maybe the microphone was rusty from moisture. Maybe Delacroix had damaged it somehow. Donnie might never know the reason, but he would know what they said to each other before he stood from this chair. One way or another, he’d learn every word.
He clicked the playback button, and the scene started again. Delacroix’s voice boomed through the speakers: I need a favor. Those were the only words he could make out. Everything that followed was muffled, even at this higher volume. Delacroix’s tone was urgent, Jolene’s typically muted. But even she was talking softer than normal. He couldn’t make out anything she said until just before she left: You should get back to painting, Michael. That’s what he’d told her to say, but it wasn’t all she said. She was hiding something, too.
“What kind of favor?” Donnie pounded on the table so hard the speakers bounced and fell over. “What the hell are you planning?” He dug out his remote. Even though he was well out of range, he pushed the button as hard as he could.
You didn’t go back far enough.
Cole’s voice startled us both. I’d almost forgotten he was there, as strange as it seemed. But Donnie treated Cole’s voice like it was his conscience. His hand reached for the mouse. “How far? What did I miss?”
One minute before Jolene came in. Delacroix will tell you everything.
In seconds the overturned speakers betrayed Michael’s side of our conversation when I told him Hannah and Sister Mary Elizabeth were on their way. All Donnie needed to hear were the words Sister Mary and he was convinced. “I knew it,” he said. “That nun was lying her ass off.”
Cole filled in the missing blanks. Yes, the nun and the blond woman—a reporter, no less—were working together. They still didn’t know if Michael was here or not, but they wouldn’t stop poking around until they found out for sure. Somehow the strange voice inside Delacroix’s head had guided them here today. But the cops didn’t believe them. Nobody would until they got solid proof. That’s why they were coming back tonight—just the reporter and the nun. No one else would be with them.
“Big mistake,” Donnie said.
I should have known better. I should have figured if I could eavesdrop on the conversations inside Donnie’s head, then Cole—or whatever he was—could listen to the ones inside Michael’s. He’d been listening long enough to learn everything I didn’t want Donnie to know. The news turned up the heat inside Donnie’s head, but I stayed anyway.
You can’t let any of them leave.
Donnie closed his eyes and pressed his palms against his temples. Cole was right. He was close to getting caught. His plan had seemed so simple when he started years ago. He took Jolene because of the way Delacroix looked at her when the artist thought no one else was watching. He assumed she must be a special talent, but he was wrong. Jolene was nothing but a huge waste of energy, and Delacroix had proven more frustrating than he was talented. Because of him, people were sneaking into his house and running through his vineyard. Placing his hope in another artist was such a stupid mistake. He should have depended only on himself from the beginning. That way things wouldn’t have gone so crazy.
Then why don’t you just leave? I said. Get in your car and start over someplace new?
My words sent a chill through Donnie and probably stunned Cole as well. But once he realized it was me, he laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Just kill them. Kill and bury them.
Or you can run while you can, I said. Sooner or later the police are coming. I won’t stop until they do. And when they come, I’ll make sure they see everything you’ve done.
Donnie jumped to his feet, kicked away his chair, and screamed. The reality finally set in. His biggest enemy wasn’t Michael or Jolene or even the reporter and the nun.
He stared into a dark corner of the room and spit out his words. “This is my kingdom. Nobody drives me from my own home.”
Then you have to let them go.
“Who do you mean? Delacroix? The nun? The reporter?”
All of them, and Jolene.
“You’re fucking crazy,” Donnie said.
Cole’s eerie voice wouldn’t be denied. Delacroix will cost you ten years in prison. Jolene might cost you thirty. You know what you need to do.
The chaos inside Donnie’s mind grew deafening. So many thoughts, scenarios, and images flew by that I couldn’t keep up. I tried to focus on the larger ideas he was pondering.
Donnie was thinking about murder. He’d killed before, but only because his parents had wronged him. They had lied to him for years and kept him from knowing his brother. Killing his father was a primal response to that betrayal—a necessary step in the process of healing, Cole had assured him. But this situation was different. He needed to protect what he’d built for himself: his artwork, his projects, his experiments with Michael and Jolene. His mother would never see him again, but she’d continue to fund his projects—like building an underground cell and hiring a professional art thief. He could start over if he wanted. Outrunning the cops was much easier when you were rich. But then there was the voice protecting Delacroix. It wasn’t as harmless as he thought. And it might be harder to get rid of than four dead bodies. He needed to find a way out of this mess—the strangers invading his property and the voices invading his head. For once he didn’t know what to do, and not knowing made his cheeks itch and burn.
Kill them and I’ll keep you safe. I promise.
Kill them and I’ll never let you sleep.
“Stop it!” He charged out the door and down the hall. Down the stairs and out of the mansion. Into the vineyard and toward the northeast corner of the property. He didn’t stop running until he reached the doors to the caves.
The sun was fading fast, but he could still see well enough to fish through his keys and open the lock that taunted him in his childhood. The winery employees didn’t like him having access to the caves, where they stored the current season’s wine in oak barrels after it came out of the primary fermenters. Sometimes they whispered about what really happened here years ago. He just knew it. But he didn’t care what they thought. Mostly he ignored them, like a queen bee ignores the workers as they buzz around her hive. Besides, like the blond reporter, he hadn’t come here for the wine.
After his mother moved away, he’d added this area to his kingdom. Unlike other wineries in the valley, these caves weren’t part of the tour. Chinese workers had excavated these passageways with pickaxes in the late 1800s, and it had taken him almost a year to memorize the layout. They were really just a series of rooms twenty feet square with short, narrow halls connecting them. Many had two or three entries. The end result was a life-sized maze that could trap anyone without a map for hours. The lighting was simple and harsh, just a line of electrical conduit running along the ceiling and one or two light boxes per room, each with a hundred-watt bulb. Racks loaded with barrels lined every wall.
He rushed through more than a do
zen rooms and into the cave’s deepest section. He stood at the edge of a rack of barrels, paced three steps toward the center of the room, then fell to his knees. This was the spot where his father had taken his last breath. The workers had scraped away the bloodstains, and since then a thousand footprints and forklift tracks had marked this dirt floor. But the memory of what had happened here remained fresh in his memory—the first time in his life he’d been angry enough to kill.
He remembered his father pleading, I swear we were planning to tell you, but they never did, not until it was too late. Learning he had a brother he could never know, a brother who could have provided an important emotional connection—that was enough to push him over the edge. He closed his eyes and ground his fists into the spot on the floor until they bled. He felt no pain, only the memory of what he experienced the night he took control of his own life.
Tonight would offer a similar moment, he told himself. Those two women were planning to sneak into his kingdom again and mess up all his plans. They’d try to steal Delacroix before the painting was finished and even call the fucking cops on him if they were able.
His body shuddered with anger, and he welcomed the rush that came with it. He drew his fists to his face and smeared his cheeks with the sticky red blood. Tonight. Yeah, tonight he’d deal with these new threats like only he could.
CHAPTER 27
After Donnie stamped his cheeks with his own blood, he took a mental detour and relived the events of the night he killed his father. I didn’t want to join him on that road again, didn’t want to sense the rush he’d felt while chasing his perverted definition of revenge. Instead I soared into the evening sky to a point where I could see the entire property. It was the only way I could keep tabs on everything I needed to watch.