by Anne Stuart
Which apparently wasn’t a marriage at all. She could take some pleasure from that, at least. And she’d really been trying to move ahead for the last three years. James Bishop’s reappearance had shown her just how little progress she had made in that direction. He’d gotten her back in bed in just about the same amount of time.
No, she reminded herself. He hadn’t gotten her back in bed. She had gone with him, willingly. If she was ever going to move past this she needed to take responsibility, and she was tired of feeling helpless.
Tired of being a prisoner as well, even if it was ostensibly for her own protection. She should open the front door and peer out. She should put on her shoes and go out looking for them, but something kept her from heading for the front door. Her instincts were clearly useless—she’d had no idea James had been using her, no idea that Pete was a lying, cheating plagiarist. How the hell could she trust whether she was in trouble or not?
It didn’t matter. As long as there was any chance of danger, she’d need to be careful. Ryder and his men might think they were the crème de la crème of operatives, or whatever they called themselves, but she’d spent the last week working on the decorative iron grille over the bathroom window and no one had noticed. A nail file had gotten it started, and each time she could reasonably disappear into the tiny room she’d worked on it. It would be a tight fit, and she would have to be able to set the grille down on the narrow iron walkway outside the window without attracting any attention, but right then it seemed like the smartest thing she could do. She had no ID, no money, no credit cards, but it didn’t matter. There was always the police, though from the stories she’d heard they might not be any better than the crime family Ryder had warned her about. One thing she wasn’t going to do: stay in this apartment like a sitting duck, waiting for someone new to try to kill her.
She moved over to the door as quietly as she could, pressing her ear against it. Was she imagining faraway whispers, or were people really out there? People who didn’t want to alert her to their presence?
Her indecision vanished. She slipped into the bedroom and locked the door, then dragged a dresser in front of it. Grabbing her sneakers, she then went into the adjoining bathroom and locked that door before climbing up onto the toilet. The moment she opened the window muggy night air swept into the air-conditioned room, but for some reason she shivered. The grille needed one more shove at the upper corner, but when she gave it one, it slipped out of her grasp and went crashing onto the narrow metal balustrade, bouncing off it and landing on something below, something that sounded sickeningly like a car.
She couldn’t hesitate. Shoving herself up, she dove through the window, wiggling herself through it as she clung to the railing, and when she finally pulled her feet through, she reached back and shut the window behind her.
It was only then she realized she’d left her shoes in the bedroom. She could hear noise from the apartment, a banging sound. Someone was trying to break down her bedroom door, and whether it was Odila or someone far more dangerous, she couldn’t afford to squat there on the narrow railing and wait for that person to get to her. The moon had come out again, illuminating the night, but she didn’t dare run on the flimsy little balcony and draw any more attention to herself.
She had no idea whether there would be a fire escape off this thing or if she was still trapped, but she headed for the back of the building, reasonably certain that if there was any way to get down to the street, it would be back there. Please please please, she muttered beneath her breath, as she heard the muffled sound of something crashing beyond her. She had made it around to the back of the building when she heard the breaking glass, the shouting; suddenly, like a deus ex machina, a fire escape appeared, and she practically threw herself down the ladder’s two flights, her bare feet slipping on the rusty metal.
She landed in a dark alley, which was dimly lit from the streetlight out on the main thoroughfare. She had no idea where she was—it had been dark when Ryder had brought her here, and she’d been too angry and miserable to pay attention—and naturally her rotating cadre of protectors/wardens refused to answer any of her questions. She could be in the French Quarter or down by the once-savaged levees, and she had no idea where to go.
No, not the French Quarter—it wasn’t bright or noisy enough. Probably not the once-flooded part of the city either—surely there’d still be a smell of lingering damp? She hesitated, and then heard the thundering footsteps overhead. She couldn’t afford to wait.
Heading toward the light would be the obvious choice, so instead she turned and sprinted down the alleyway, into the darkness. The ground was rough beneath her feet, and she knew it would only be luck that would keep her from slicing her foot open on something. The alley smelled of beer and piss and puke, and she could hear the thunder of footsteps racing down the rickety metal stairs. It sounded like an army was coming after her, and she knew it wasn’t anybody from Bishop’s mysterious Committee after all. Whoever it was wanted to harm her, wanted to kill her, and she wasn’t ready to die.
She turned the corner and slammed to a halt: wire fencing went up twenty feet or more, blocking the exit. They were coming closer now, and she looked around for a place to hide, desperate. There was nothing—no convenient Dumpster, no abandoned car, nothing to hide behind. She was well and truly trapped.
She looked back at the fencing, wondering if she could climb over it, just as strong lights speared into the alleyway; they missed her as she ducked down, but briefly illuminated a door in the brick wall she’d thought was solid. The beam of light swept back, and she jumped, not hesitating, reaching the door before the light returned.
For one desperate, breathless moment she thought it was locked, and she wanted to scream, to cry, to yank at what she believed was an immovable doorknob. But it moved, opening inward, and she stumbled into the darkness, down, down, managing to kick the door shut behind her as she fell.
Merlin found Jenkins’s body underneath the stairs. Bishop might not have noticed, but the smell of blood and body fluids hit him a moment after Merlin leapt forward.
Ryder pushed past him. “You go on,” he said brusquely, kneeling down by the corpse as Merlin began scrambling up the flights of stairs in search of Evangeline. Odila’s body was crumpled in a corner of the third-floor landing, but the dog didn’t slow down, his nose taking him straight to the apartment door, and Bishop didn’t stop to check whether he was dead. The Corsini family never left anything to chance. He followed Merlin and saw the apartment door standing open. Whoever had come after her hadn’t had to kick it in—they’d have taken the keys from Odila, and Evangeline would have had no idea that she was about to die.
He didn’t hesitate, crossing the hallway with a few strides. Merlin was already inside, growling, and he knew she was already dead. She wouldn’t have had a chance, and it was all his fault . . .
Merlin’s growl turned to a bark, and Bishop sped up, slamming past the open front door, certain he was going to find her body, but there was no sign of her. The door to the bedroom had been smashed in, and he could see she’d tried to push the bureau in front of it. Smart girl—she hadn’t been caught unawares after all.
She was still no match for hired killers. Merlin had already leapt through the remnant of the door, and Bishop followed. No sign of her there either. The dog was already in the bathroom, barking loudly, the sound echoing off the tile.
He steeled himself, but the small room was empty. Someone had taken the grille off the window, and he knew it had to have been her. It would have been a slow, painstaking job, and it would have taken her days to work on it. She was a fighter and she never gave up. Thank God she didn’t trust him—otherwise she would have been trapped in there.
Merlin was trying to jump high enough to get through the window, but with a short command, Bishop called him back. The only way they could find her was through Merlin, and the chances of Evangeline being out
on the narrow balcony were nil. Ryder was already at the door, his face the same expressionless mask he always used on assignment. He took one look at James and allowed just a glimmer of reaction before he shut down again.
“She got out?” he said.
Bishop nodded. “Sneaky little thing spent the week unfastening the bathroom grille. She got out that way.”
“But how far?” It wasn’t a question—Ryder knew that Bishop would have no more answers than he would. He also knew that time was running out.
“Merlin will find her,” Bishop said.
“In time?”
Bishop just looked at him, and Ryder shook his head. “We’ll be in time, James,” he amended. “If the mighty James Bishop is going to fall, then I’m damned well not going to let some half-ass mob family get in the way of love’s young dream.”
Bishop didn’t bother replying. If Ryder had any control over the situation, they’d get her back safely. But they both knew that some things were out of their control.
Merlin barked. “You’re right,” James said to the dog. “We’re wasting time. Find her for me.”
A moment later Merlin had disappeared down the stairs, with James and Ryder in close pursuit.
Chapter Twenty-Two
She couldn’t breathe. Alone in the deep, cocooning darkness she thrashed and struggled, unable to make a sound, and she was going to die alone, never found, her body rotting and eaten by rats . . .
Her breath returned with a giant whoosh, and she collapsed on the floor, then immediately shoved herself up again. She’d had the breath knocked out of her, and now she was lying in a pool of foul-smelling water, trying to find the strength to get to her feet.
Pain radiated from every part of her body, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and weep, but she didn’t dare. She could hear them, or maybe she was imagining it, voices, footsteps, so she started to run, straight into the darkness, into cruel hands that waited, clamping down on her. She opened her mouth to scream, but a meaty hand slammed over her face, and she didn’t make the mistake of thinking it might be someone who wanted to help her. She fought, twisting in their hands, kicking, desperate, but she was helpless. There were at least two men holding on to her, impervious to her blows. Steeling herself, she bit down on the hand across her mouth, hard, and the man loosened his hold for a fraction of a second, cursing.
It was all that she needed. She tore herself away from them, throwing herself into the shadows. Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the inky blackness and she could see shapes well enough to avoid them, a glowing red light in the distance that she hoped and prayed was an exit sign.
She darted through the impenetrable darkness, hiding behind piles of crates, avoiding the steel pillars that seemed to be holding the place up. The stink of it made her gag—the old building had been used as a toilet—but she didn’t have time to think about that, only that she needed the fresh night air, that she needed to get away from the men who were hunting her. She tripped, going down again, but this time she held still, squatting low in the darkness, as the flashlights beamed over her head.
“She’s gone out there.” The voice was gruff, foreign sounding, and a moment later the exit door slammed open, letting in marginal light from the night outside. She counted three of them—bulky figures, holding guns—as they poured out the door, and it slammed shut behind them, closing her inside.
She didn’t make the mistake of moving. Had all of them left, or was it simply a trick to lure her out? She held her breath, listening, and a scratching noise came from her left. Soft, scuffling, it was a noise that could only come from rats.
Evangeline froze. They wouldn’t come closer, would they? If she stayed where she was, unmoving, would they think she was just another piece of meat to gnaw on? Did she dare stay where she was for long enough to catch her breath, or was someone else inside with her, waiting for her to make another mistake?
The scrabbling came closer, the only sound in the dank basement aside from the slow drip of water, and she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. If something touched her, she’d start screaming and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop.
Were they waiting outside the door, watching for her, guns drawn? No, they hadn’t shot her when they had their hands on her. They didn’t want her dead—at least, not right away—or they would have already shot her. She’d escaped once—if they were waiting for her, then she could escape again.
She wasn’t even going to think about what she was walking through on bare feet. Cut feet were really the least of her worries—a cut throat would be permanent. As she edged closer to the door, none of the shadowy forms around her moved.
She found the door by feel alone, and she rested her cheek against the cool, sweating metal, listening for the telltale sounds of voices, for traffic, for any sign of life. She was at the opposite end of the alley from where she’d been trapped—with any luck this door would open onto a major thoroughfare, and she’d take her chances with the police. Or maybe, just maybe, James would have discovered she was missing, and he was coming after her, coming to rescue her once more, as he had so many times before.
Or maybe he’d finally given up. She couldn’t count on rescue, either way. All she could do was try to rescue herself. She pushed at the bar across the door, and it opened slowly, with a creaking sound so loud she thought it would wake the entire neighborhood. She peered outside, ready to yank the door shut again, but all was silent. She stepped forward into the night and let the door close behind her, realizing too late that there was no way to get back in if she needed to.
She looked around her. The streets were still wet from the earlier rain, steam rose off the pavement, and the streetlights glistened in the puddles of water left from the drenching. She was in some sort of cul-de-sac—there were shuttered storefronts, a bar with noise and light streaming from it, and a small white Catholic church built of stone in such a state of disrepair it looked as if it had been abandoned years ago.
There’d be a phone in the bar. Someone could call the police for her. She started toward it, when three figures darted from the entrance, the overhead light illuminating their cold faces, and she knew they were the men who’d followed her into the basement of the abandoned building, the men who’d been after her since she’d escaped the apartment.
She froze, and it seemed to her she could see into their flat, dead eyes, even though that would have been impossible given the distance and the dark. She could recognize the silhouettes of guns though, and her immobility shattered. The church was her last chance—she sprinted across the littered street, ducking into the shadows, moving as swiftly and silently as she could, ignoring the shooting pain in her foot when she finally stepped on something sharp, stumbling up the front steps of the church and flinging herself at the doorway.
She half expected it to be locked, and when it opened beneath her icy fingers, she wanted to fall inside and fling herself on the floor crying “Sanctuary!” like some medieval thief. The door closed with a heavy thud behind her, and she staggered forward into the light.
It was a small church, with only a dozen rows of pews, but it was far from abandoned. The altar was filled with tall brightly lit candles and a black-robed priest stood there praying, his back to her. He turned at the sound of the door shutting, and looked at her ragged, barefoot appearance without any surprise at all. Then again, maybe she wasn’t that strange-looking for New Orleans in the small hours of the morning. There must be a need for a priest to be on duty.
“My child,” he said in a gentle, welcoming voice. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” He started down the aisle, his long robes swishing on the stone floor, his elderly face full of compassion. “You’ve hurt your foot. Give me your hand and I’ll help you to a seat.”
“I need you to call the police, Father,” she said, her voice cracked and shaking. “There are some men after me—we need to lock t
he church doors or they might hurt you as well.”
He smiled at her. “There’s no need. These streets are lawless, but everyone knows that the Church of the Blessed Martyr is protected. Come and let me see to your feet.” He took her hand in his. The skin was soft, but the hand was surprisingly strong, and he pulled her along to the front of the church, setting her down gently in the front pew. Candles were burning on the altar, a soft, reassuring glow, and she gasped in awe at the candlesticks. They were tall and ornate, and looked as if they might be solid gold.
“Is it safe to use those candlesticks? Won’t someone rob you?”
He glanced behind him, as if he’d forgotten them, and chuckled softly. “No one would dare rob this place. And you have a good eye, my child. Those are very old—from the time the French ruled New Orleans. Their value in gold is estimable, their historical value is beyond calculation. But no one would dare such sacrilege. Now you sit here while I get something to bathe your feet and call the police.”
“But if those men find me . . .”
“Don’t worry, my child. Trust me.” He disappeared, and she leaned back against the pew, trying to catch her breath and calm her racing heart. Would murderers and members of organized crime really respect the boundaries of a church? James and Claudia . . . Claude . . . certainly hadn’t when they carried out an execution in the tiny mountainside church.
Evangeline had left bloody footprints up the narrow center aisle of the tiny church. Her feet were filthy—if the men didn’t storm the church, she’d probably die of typhus or some hideous disease anyway. She ought to leave. She was putting that sweet old man in danger. Surely there’d be a way out the back, and she could keep running . . .