by Jack Parker
Ric was the first to speak. Or, rather he laughed, apparently finding the situation of his possible demise amusing. His voice echoed in the holy chamber, causing Scott to look up towards the rafters where the sound came to rest.
Something in the shadows made the blond man move a bit closer to the woman with the gun.
"Put it down," he whispered, "before you get yourself killed."
The decision was on her. Tessa felt her teeth clench. She pulled her gaze away to look at Scott, and for a moment—one fleeting second—her fingers tightened around the pistol. But somewhere out of the darkness floated a barely there plea, a familiar voice urging her to heed the warning, "Smart man…listen to him, Contessa… before I have to bury another child."
Donatello stepped through the arched doorway that shielded the choir loft stairs. He wasn't alone. One of his bodyguards hovered next to the door. Most of the lights in the church were off; only a few in the corners kept the blackness at bay, but even through the dark shadows, Donatello's warning leer was quite noticeable.
Her arm went limp. She allowed the handgun to swing freely in her hand, showing, if nothing else, a willingness to concede. Tessa knelt to one knee from where she stood.
"Good girl," Donatello said.
Using the veiled light to her advantage, Tessa reached, unnoticed, into her front pant pocket and retrieved a tiny tape recorder. She pressed the right button, and laid it to rest on the church floor, placing it down hard enough to present the unmistakable sound of metal against hardwood. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the object sliding across the polished floor. A muted thud followed, an indication that it had stopped somewhere next to the pews.
She stood and turned to face her father, her body masking the movement of her hand. Tessa slid the Koch into her pocket – the swap not complete. She casually adjusted the hem of her sweater to ensure its secrecy.
"Father, it's good to see you here." The lie was worthy of a lightning strike, but she drew on all her skills to sound convincing.
Motioning to a spot next to him, Donatello said, "A lot has changed…you will acknowledge who you are."
"And why is that?" she snapped.
Her father didn't butter coat the facts, "We got a call this morning…Dante is dead."
"What…How?" Tessa gasped the question, even though she suspected the answer.
"Someone took him to Locus Street and put a bullet in his head."
She swung again towards Ric, but her father put a hand on her shoulder. "It's time you take your proper place."
Scott felt the shift in mood, the tensing of muscles, and the twitching of eyelids. He could almost hear the mental snap.
Ric growled, "I don't think so."
It didn't take a rocket scientist to understand that Ric disliked the ascension plan. Perhaps he was against women in positions of power, or maybe he thought the spot was meant for him, but the scales tipped in half a second and Scott simply let himself react.
A gun fired, as he knew it would. Scott was too busy shoving Tessa out of the way to avoid the inevitable. The sear of pain was frighteningly familiar, as was the desperate inhale he managed as he slowly crumpled to the ground.
With a speed that surpassed her talented cousin, Tessa reached back, yanked the gun from its hiding spot, and squeezed off a solitary round , beating the professional to the second shot meant for her.
Ric didn't make a sound; just a sudden jerk backwards tattled that the bullet had found its mark.
Tessa crumpled to her knees next to Scott, her fingers still curled tightly around the proverbial smoking gun. "Scott," she half whispered to the prone and bleeding man, "come on baby, stay with me." Fingers from her right hand gently brushed back a few stray blond strands from his face, his breathing was shallow and labored; a sickly pale had replaced his usual sun-kissed skin.
Even in the veiled light, Tessa could see a pool of blood growing against his white shirt. The sticky warm fluid oozed onto the wooden floor as if seeking contact with the guilty.
An insistent tug on the handgun forced Tessa to look up. Donatello pulled the piece from her limp fingers. For a long minute, he stared at his daughter with dark eyes, knowing that no matter what else she did in life, nothing would affect her as much.
"How will you explain this?" Luke asked, snapping Tessa from the haze she felt enveloping her.
"I…Ric?"
Donatello shook his head.
"Self-defense. Not a word otherwise," her father said, pressing her gun into Scott's hand, then letting the piece fall naturally from the injured man's hand.
Ice-blue eyes only blinked in response; she understood completely. Dead men don't talk and modern science doesn't lie. The concept made her nauseous.
An envelope of papers fell to the floor, tossed there by the grim-looking Morgano. "Crawford knew what he was stepping into a year ago…he owes us this one."
Tessa went numb. She had no idea what he was talking about and there was no time to ask. "We need to call an ambulance."
"The police will be here soon enough." Donatello nodded towards Father Luke. "You'll come with us."
"But..."
Donatello put a protective hand under Tessa's arm and half walked, half pulled her towards the altar and the rear entrance to the church. "We're leaving."
Chapter 21
Graduation
The drive from the church to her father's Chicago estate was painfully silent. Tessa spent the time wedged uncomfortably in the backseat of the limousine, listening to the purr of the engine. Stuffy air and tinted windows added to the oppressive atmosphere.
There was blood on her hands. Scott's probably; after all, he'd been standing in front of her taking that bullet from Ric's gun on her behalf. The red liquid was dry now, cracking uncomfortably beneath her fingernails. Rubbing the pads of her fingers together could not erase the scarlet tinge.
Her father wordlessly handed her a handkerchief. She started to shake as she passed the white cotton over her fingers—finding they left no discoloring mark.
The shivers did not subside. Her stomach rolled as the limo made the turn onto the long private driveway. "Pull over," she choked, knowing she wasn't going to make it into the dark confines of the garage next to the house.
Donatello knocked on the privacy glass, signaling the driver to comply with her command. The doors unlocked with a click and Tessa tumbled out onto the asphalt. Bent over, half kneeling on the pavement, she let her stomach empty. It took only a few seconds for the worst of it to be over. Gingerly, she wiped her lips with the handkerchief, and took a deep breath of the cool air.
Beside her, Donatello asked, "Feeling better?"
All her emotions were packaged in the look she gave him: fear, anger, betrayal. "How can you ask something like that? I just…" Breathing again, she forced out the words, "killed a man."
One Armani-suited shoulder lifted. He stood close enough to smell her fear and the bile on her breath, but he seemed unfazed by it and her words. "Get back in the car."
"I'll walk."
He closed the car door, and the limo crept forward as father and daughter moved together towards the glass and stone building 100 yards in the distance.
She took no comfort in his presence. "Why did you bring Luca? He could have stayed and..."
"And what? Told the police that you shot your cousin? Perhaps shared more secrets about our family? No, this is best." He cleared his throat, signaling his word was final. Donatello looked towards the limo. "I have some unfinished business to discuss with him. In private. I was in the middle of that when you and G.J. arrived."
"I wondered what he was doing up in the choir loft," she mumbled, as if it ever really mattered.
"None of that is of any consequence," he said. "All that have wronged us, have paid dearly. It was most unfortunate to have Ric show such…flawed logic for all to see."
"What exactly was he talking about?"
Donatello pursed his lips tighter. It appeared he'd swallowed
a lemon, the words he held equally sour.
Tessa pushed, "Both you and Scott have talked about the Xenex Corporation, like something eating from the inside."
"Every family has limbs that are not true to the tree."
"And Dante?"
"We will not speak of your brother. The dead can no longer help you, nor hurt you."
She didn't look at him but stared straight ahead. The shadow of the building closed around her.
The automatic alarm echoed through the quiet room. The sole occupant did not stir; a half-dozen pillows kept her company in the scrollwork wrought-iron bed. With the blinds drawn tight, the early morning sun peeked through the slats, filling the room with a golden haze.
Beep. Beep.
The annoying chirp of the alarm continued until she could no longer ignore it. With a loud groan, she hoisted herself up and slapped at the clock, knocking it to the floor. Stretching to see over the edge of the bed, she viewed the pieces scattered around the bedside table much as she had done less than a week before.
"Dannazione," she cursed, "I go through more clocks."
For the moment she ignored the mess and shuffled to the kitchen to make coffee. Over the past few days, Dante's house was looking less and less like his, and was taking on a more streamlined, less cluttered feel. Gone was the old upright; in its place stood a polished ebony Steinway grand piano. Linens graced the dining room table.
With so many things changing, it only made sense to move into the empty house. After all, her apartment no longer felt secure after the break-in, and anyways, her days in Chicago would be numbered after the funeral. New York had a lure of its own.
Three cups of coffee and a hot shower later, Tessa was putting the finishing touches to her upswept hair when the front bell rang. She walked confidently to the door, no indication of a surprise visitor in her manner.
"It's rather early, Detective," she said, after disarming the alarm system and opening the door.
"Ms. Morgano," Detective Blaine responded with a nod. Without preamble, he blurted, "I've heard it said that in every set of twins, one is good and one is evil." He paused for only a heartbeat. "Do you think that's a fair analysis?"
Her warm greeting turned to a sly smile. "I've never given it any thought."
"Oh, I have."
She'd learned from the best; expression frozen, Tessa revealed nothing. "Detective, I don't wish to be rude, but I have many things to tend to today."
"Of course, then I'll get to why I'm here." Without being invited, the man took an aggressive step into the house, effectively forcing Tessa to step back or be stepped on. He glanced around the room and then looked directly at her. "Your brother Dante was a very good friend of mine."
"Benefactor, you mean."
"Label it as you will. Let me just say, he has one item on account. I can't repay that debt directly but I can't have it left on the books either."
He didn't have to explain what he meant. She understood all too well that karma had a funny way of making things even. The detective went on to say, "I'm going to venture a guess that this belongs to either you or Crawford," tossing a small recorder on the table.
The color draining from her cheeks must have said it all.
"Want to know what's on it?" he asked.
"Icanguess."
He shook his head. "Tempting," Detective Blaine said, "but what I don't know, can't kill me."
Reaching into an inside pocket of his jacket, he retrieved a lumpy beige bag. "Crawford had this in his hand when I found him at the church. Handed it to me personal before the ambulance arrived. I'll presume you'll return to him anything that is rightfully his."
"Whose side are you on?"
"Does it matter?"
"I won't pay you for this."
"That's fine." He didn't smile as he turned towards the door. "You can owe me."
Tessa was left staring at the recorder that sat accusingly on the counter; only the soft click of the door announced the detective leaving. Her gaze shifted to the pouch in her hand. Three thumb drives lined the bottom.
Tessa stared at the choppy waters of Lake Michigan. "Just a little more time, Luca, I have one more thing I need to do."
"Don't you be going to the hosp…" he tried to counter, but his words were cut off with the flip of her cell phone closing.
"I have to," she said softly to the closed phone.
Standing on the pier, Tessa felt the cool wind and shivered in response. She put the phone away, exchanging it for the beige bag. Without ceremony or hesitation, she lifted her left hand and allowed the thumb drives to fall free into the dark water before she turned on her heel and walked back to the Mustang idling nearby.
Tessa checked her watch; there was still more than enough time before her flight to New York. She took a moment to glance in the rear-view mirror; long gone were the shades of red that had graced her mane only a few days earlier. Her father had been right about one thing; nothing would be the same after what she'd done, and so with that, she found it fitting to reinvent who she'd become. It went beyond the barely recognizable makeup and designer clothes.
Within the hour, soft-soled runners padded her quietly through the corridors of the hospital and up to Scott's floor, within only a few steps of his room. She'd put in enough calls to the nurses' station requesting updates of his recovery to know that ICU Room 3 was her last scheduled stop.
A uniformed police officer, a dark-haired woman, and Dr. Frank Arezzo—an old family friend and coincidently enough Scott's doctor—were already in the room. Even with the woman's back to the door, it only took a second for Tessa to know that Marlayna Reed was the one sitting on Scott's bed, her hand protectively on his shoulder.
"Welcome to The Smith Stained Glass Museum and Heritage Fund."
The dream swirled around him, blurred around the edges with intravenous pain killers. The faceless voice poured out of the phone in his hand. It reminded him of someone, but he couldn't think who.
"Press 1 for our hours of operation."
He looked down. In slow motion, his index finger tried to press the "one" key, but never got there.
"Press 2 for directions."
Yes, directions would be good. Maybe he should try that, find out where he was and why there was this pain in his stomach.
Too slow…
"Press 3 for information on how to make a donation."
A donation? Hmm, no, money was tight. No, that wasn't true. It wasn't money he lacked but something else. Still, he didn't want to just give money away to a religious organization. All he could think about was a church, and yet, hadn't he just been on the phone with a museum? Something wasn't right. The lines blurred again. Scott's dream charged on without waiting for him to catch up.
"Press 4 to be connected to an operator."
Operator…operation…doctor. Yes, something medical had happened to him. Looking down, he could see his body clothed in a hospital gown—one of those annoying blue and white striped numbers that gaped in the back.
"Press 5 for Special Services."
Special services sounded good. He'd go for that—but something stopped him from pushing the button. The same voice spoke his name…
"Scott, can you hear me?"
He moaned and turned his head to the side, letting his cheek touch the soft pillow. Eyes still closed, he tried to ignore the summons.
"Scottie?"
His eyelids fluttered and his green-eyed gaze fastened on a brunette sitting on the bed beside him.
"Marlayna," Scott muttered. His voice was hoarse, his throat dry. He tried to push himself up to a sitting position, but a shooting pain stopped the movement, and he fell back on the pillow, placing one hand protectively on his stomach. There were probably worse places to be shot, but this was one of the most painful.
The manicured hand that came to rest on his arm wasn't comforting. Looking around the room, Scott tried to piece together how he got there, and why his former boss was hovering.
Ther
e was a cop in the room. Scott decided to focus on him.
"Mr. Crawford. Good to see you conscious."
Scott glanced at the window. It was daylight, but that didn't mean it was the same day. He had a suspicion he'd missed more than the time change. Smiling weakly, he asked, "What can I do for you, officer?"
Marlayna interrupted, "I really don't think my fiancé should be answering any questions right now." Something in Marlayna's steely gaze dared him to deny the situation.
Defiantly, he asked a question of his own, "Where is Tessa?"
"If you mean Contessa Morgano," he replied, "Most likely making funeral arrangements."
"Funeral?" For a second Scott forgot about the few minutes leading up to the shooting, particular the announcement that Dante was dead but the officer was kind enough to fill in the details—though he shouldn't have been completely surprised.
"Family member – cousin I think." The officer said. "Actually, that why I'm here. We need your statement on the shooting at St. Joseph's."
The smile on his face faded. He'd missed a lot and didn't doubt that even more had happened while he lay bleeding on the floor. Things that would be difficult to explain. "I really don't feel well," Scott said, admitting the truth. "Can all of you come back in an hour or two?"
"You heard him," Dr Arezzo interrupted, "I'll have to ask the two of you to leave." The man dressed in white wasted no time in ushering the officer out of the room. "Mr. Crawford needs rest."
Marlayna was not so quick in leaving. Leaning close to the prone man, she whispered, "Scott darling, did Ric find anything in Dante's car?"
All Scott could do was moan a truthful, "No."
The doctor pressed, "Miss, I'm going to have to insist," motioning for Marlayna to follow. Her loving concern disappeared about as quickly as she did.
Tessa was sure to keep her back to the pair as they entered the corridor. She wasn't completely surprised to see Marlayna; the woman had shown up in stranger places as of late, and yet…
She caught Dr. Arezzo's attention as he turned back down the hall, having escorted the others around the corner. Intercepting her, he said, "You'd better hold off going in there. At least give his fiancée and the cop a few minutes to leave the hospital."