Lynne Connolly

by The Chemistry Of Evil (Triskelion) (lit)

  “So do I.” Sofie’s hand was steady as she poured the coffee. “Archie – or the creature Archie has become – is living above the art gallery. Every thread leads back to her.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Bull Gallery was expensive and discreet. In the window was a single painting, a pure abstract in shades of blue and yellow. Evan didn’t give it more than a cursory glance before he pushed open the glass door and stepped inside.

  An elegant, expensively dressed woman with short, dark bangs stepped forward to greet him, a professional smile on her red lipsticked mouth. “Were you looking for anything in particular, sir?” The smile turned genuine.

  Evan guessed leathers and height had something to do with her interest. At another time he might have returned her regard, but not today. Not now. He wanted to get this over with. “The proprietor would be a start,” he suggested. He rubbed his hand around the back of his neck in a weary gesture.

  “I don’t know if Mrs. Bull is available,” the woman said. “She was in a meeting earlier today. I will inquire. Who shall I say is here?”

  “Evan Howell.”

  The woman had turned to leave the gallery, but at the quietly spoken name her taut backside paused, and she turned back to stare at him. “Evan Howell? Weren’t you connected with Meghan Leroux?”

  “I’m her brother.” Even the word made Evan’s throat tighten. Her perverted desire had turned his world inside out, and he wasn’t sure it would ever right itself again. Sofie had begun to heal him, but now she was lost, too.

  “I’m Mrs. Bull’s daughter, Anna.” She offered a hand, the fingernails varnished bright red. Evan wondered fleetingly how anyone could present such a picture of perfection. He didn’t find it particularly alluring, preferring Sofie’s tousled beauty. The thought of her, how she looked, tightened his groin. He pushed the mental image aside for later. It might be all that remained of her when he went back. If he went back.

  He touched the woman’s hand. “Mrs. Bull?” he suggested.

  “Ah yes.” Anna Bull seemed transfixed, staring at him for a moment before she left.

  Evan looked around the large room, divided into several galleries by half-walls. Several paintings hung on the walls. All abstract. Pretty colors, he thought. Scattered around were sculptures. At least Evan thought they were sculptures, but he wasn’t entirely sure an old half-opened tin can floating in an unidentifiable globular liquid could be called that. There was no sign of anything resembling a tarot card. Perhaps Cristos’s artist hadn’t made the grade.

  He was just beginning to wonder what had happened when Anna returned. “She can’t see you right now, but she’s available in an hour or so. She suggests we go for lunch.”

  Evan lifted his hand and waved it vaguely. “What will you do here?”

  “I’ll lock up. We’re not particularly busy today.” She moved closer and lowered her voice. “I’d rather get out of here.”

  Evan agreed. She smelled good, of something floral and spicy. Most of the restaurants in this area were exclusive and costly, but he’d put it his expense account. If it wasn’t Agency business it was the Bureau’s, but he didn’t think Cristos would question the expense. “I’m on my bike, and you don’t look dressed for that.” Her long legs were encased in a tight, dark brown skirt. Her jacket was equally closely tailored. Evan doubted she could get her arms around his waist in that get-up, much less her legs across the saddle.

  “We’ll go to Fiori’s. It’s not far. You like Italian?”

  Cautiously Evan agreed.

  Fiori’s proved to be a discreet little place where the Bull’s were obviously well known. Evan allowed himself to be shepherded to a place at the rear of the restaurant and handed an oversized menu.

  Staring at the beautifully photographed images of Venetian cuisine on the menu he was reminded of the pub lasagna they’d had in Tintagel. A different world. A world, if truth be told, that he preferred. The easy camaraderie of that evening had relaxed and interested him, as this formal encounter did not.

  Would Anna Bull have appealed to him if he hadn’t met Sofie? Probably. She was his type, tall, slender, dark haired, effortlessly elegant. Or at least it had been his type, once. Meghan had been like that, except her dress was less rigidly formal. Anna might dress like this out of professionalism, and not personal preference.

  It was nothing to him what she wore, or how she looked, but he’d needed a moment to remind himself of that fact.

  They ordered. Evan, uninterested in the menu, asked Anna to order for him. The first course was fishy, accompanied by a light white wine, and when he brought the second course, the waiter took away the white and brought a red. Evan didn’t care what color it was, but would have preferred to finish it off before it was taken away.

  Conversation was light. Evan’s manners were good enough for him to follow where she led. After the first course he was mildly surprised to find he was hungry. His heart ached, but it seemed his stomach was still functioning normally. He encouraged Anna to talk about artists, a subject he presumed interested her. It did, but she drew him in so he didn’t have enough peace to eat his meal. As soon as they got back to the gallery Evan had every intention of finishing this, one way or another. They wouldn’t take Sofie, and they wouldn’t take him, if he could help it. A direct confrontation seemed the right thing. Evan had no patience with the quiet maneuvering going on while people were being murdered, and the scene this morning with Sofie had been the last straw.

  His mind kept returning to one thing. The look on Sofie’s face when she’d seen the image he’d tried for so long to suppress. There had been a moment when he’d thought his love for Meghan had been complete. Thirty seconds later he’d recoiled in horror from the knowledge she revealed to him, but the moment his mind retained was the perfect moment. He hated it. It mocked him, taunted him every waking moment. At least it had, until he’d met and loved Sofie. Then he’d managed to shove it where it belonged; at the very back of his mind. Until this morning.

  Enough. It was over. No one would accept him after that. Hell, he had difficulty accepting it himself. He’d resisted therapy, but he was beginning to think it wasn’t such a bad idea. He had to do something.

  Sometime during the main course the conversation turned to more serious matters. He suspected Anna had imbibed a little too much, for she became positively gossipy. He leaned back in his chair, swirling the red wine around in his glass. He watched as Anna downed another drink and leaned forward to refill her glass and top off his own. “Do you like working in the gallery?”

  She spoke for a full five minutes on artists, meeting them, what their art meant, speaking to him as though he was an enthusiast and not an amateur. He appreciated that. His knowledge wasn’t extensive, but he wasn’t a stranger to the beauties of life. She was interesting.

  As the meal went on he began to consider Anna as sexy. After a visit to the men’s room he found a huge piece of ice cream bombe at his place, and wondered how she knew he had a partiality for tutti-frutti. Still, he was far from drunk, never forgetting he was here for a reason, and not to have a long lunch with an attractive woman.

  Anna was talking about an artist. Muzzily he realized it was Meghan. “She was a remarkable artist. A woman of real talent. Her death was a tragedy.” She paused. “Have they caught the people who did it?”

  Did she know? Was she pretending to be disingenuous or was she as much a victim as the other young women? Would she be next?

  The thought gave him a pang of regret. She wasn’t his concern, but she was likeable. She’d undone the buttons on her jacket, and her blouse wasn’t quite as carefully set in place as it had been when they’d entered the restaurant. Anna was a very attractive woman.

  The bill arrived, borne by a waiter who flicked a glance over him before turning away. Anna picked up the paper and scrawled her signature across the back. “Let the Gallery pay for it.”

  “Shall we go back?”

  Anna twisted her arm t
o consult her wristwatch. “No. She won’t be finished yet. Take me for a drink. There’s a bar up the street.”

  Nothing loath, Evan stood up and waited for her to get to her feet. The room swayed slightly, but he soon had it under control. A short walk would help.

  They adjourned to the bar, Anna leaning comfortably on Evan, his arm around her. It seemed quite natural. She had more height that Sofie, but Evan was taller still, so she still fit. His thoughts seemed to be difficult to chase, but he remembered the most important thing. To find out what he could about the gallery and its owner, give the FBI some reason to search the place and finish this nightmare. He still had to find the person who’d killed his sister. He was sure Mrs. Bull had some part in the killing. If she didn’t do it herself she knew someone who did. But why did she do such a thing? Her motive was as shadowy as ever.

  The bar was unremarkable enough, its main feature a large, red neon sign advertising a long-dead brand of beer. An antique, almost. They sat at the bar and ordered beer. Evan was mildly surprised to find Anna drank it. An elegant female like Anna looked more like a wine drinker, or even vodka. But she drank the beer without complaint. They took a pitcher over to a table.

  “Has the gallery been there long?”

  Anna peered at him over her glass, dark eyes wide. She answered him in her own time, drinking half the glass before putting it down on the table. “Yes, but we haven’t owned it long. It was the Metropolitan Gallery before we came, two years ago. We decided to move here from the East.” She carried on, giving Evan facts to put away for later. They came from San Francisco, but Mrs. Bull was originally from New York. When her husband died she came back East and brought Anna, her only child.

  Slowly it dawned on Evan that Anna wasn’t telling him anything the Agency probably knew already. He could have learned all this by asking his boss for the dossier, or asking Sofie to ask Harry Bent for the Bureau’s. He needed more. He needed to know what was under it all. He needed to know why.

  “What about you?” she asked eventually.

  He began to tell her the bare facts, just as she’d done for him. Then brought in something that made her sit up a little straighter. They were on their second pitcher of beer by then. “I studied everything – even the occult.”

  “Oh? What part of the occult?”

  Just in time Evan remembered Cristos’s plant at the gallery, and avoided the Tarot. That was too much of a coincidence. “The Arthurian legend.”

  She laughed, a controlled tinkle of mirth. “Arthur? Is that the occult?”

  “Well, there was Merlin.”

  “There was, wasn’t there? And Niniane, and Morgause, and Morgaine, all those powerful women. They ran rings around the men.”

  Evan grinned in response. “Women generally can run rings around men. They do it all the time.”

  “As it happens, I have an interest there, as well. Do you believe in the Grail legend?”

  Evan considered. “I believe there was an artifact. A cup, maybe.”

  Was it his imagination, or did her gaze sharpen? “And Excalibur?”

  “The sword? Didn’t knights often call their swords a pet name?”

  “Oh, more than that. Excalibur had some remarkable properties. And it was never found. It disappeared. There are ways of calling it back.”

  Evan reached for the jug and poured two glasses of the foaming amber liquid. “Why would anyone want to?”

  “It conveyed immortality.”

  He put the pitcher down, pleased to see how steady he held it. “Immortality?”

  She shrugged and picked up her glass, tracing a sharp red fingernail over the dewed rim. “That’s what I read. The possessor of the sword is supposed to be able to wield immense power. And the holder becomes immortal.”

  “How does one find this miracle?” Evan took a deep draught of his beer, but kept his eyes on her face. There was something here. Her attitude was too casual, too careless.

  “There’s only one way. An object that is linked psychically with the sword, one that calls it from wherever it is. A summoning, you might say.”

  Evan laughed, genuine amusement plus a little pretence. “What on earth could that be, and why hasn’t it been found by now?”

  “I read there had to be a ritual, something that summoned the artifact. Then it appeared - for the right person.”

  Evan allowed his humor to remain. “And where did you read all this? I thought I’d studied most of the sources, but I can’t recall this one.”

  “Aleister Crowley’s books. You know of him?”

  Evan nodded “A little.”

  They were toying with each other. Evan was fairly sure now that Anna knew about Sofie, and the whistle. It must be that. She was lying about Crowley. He really knew Crowley, and he’d read nothing to that effect in any of his work. “The man was an enigma.” His mind raced, wondering if he could warn Cristos in time. The whistle had to be made safe, locked up tight.

  “A powerful man,” Anna murmured. “I’ve always wanted to try his theories out for myself.” She gave Evan an unmistakable come-on look, staring into his eyes. He could lose himself in those eyes. Dark and bewitching.

  “I don’t need to ask what theories, do I?” He lowered his voice to a seductive purr.

  “Oh no.” she paused. “Aren’t you going to ask me back to your place? It’s the least you can do, after making me play hooky all afternoon.”

  He chuckled. “That wasn’t my idea.” He paused, taking a long draught of beer. “I need to go somewhere first.”

  It was only when he got to the men’s room he remembered Sofie. There was no way they could go back there. And why would he want to? Anna was a passing fancy, nothing more. How could he think like that? Swaying a little, he steadied himself on the side of the stall, blinking at the blinding white porcelain. He was drunk. There was nothing here for him. He wasn’t prepared to sleep with Anna, when he came to it, although he was feeling decidedly primed.

  He couldn’t pee. Surely, after all that beer, he should be able to pee.

  He waited for a moment, but he couldn’t do it. When he went to wash his hands he stared at himself in the mirror, not really seeing for a moment.

  His eyes were dark, the pupils huge. Evan stared into his own eyes, wondering. He’d had half a bottle of wine with lunch, and perhaps a pitcher of beer. A lot, for him, but this wasn’t the drink. He felt disoriented, floating in a different world.

  He’d been drugged.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sofie woke from a light doze when the front door crashed open, spilling Evan full length on the floor. The door slammed shut behind him.

  Jerking upright, Sofie was off the sofa and half way across the room before he hit the floor. He wasn’t unconscious, but lay groaning. Sofie smelled liquor. “You’re drunk!”

  “No.” he rolled over, but kept his eyes closed. “Not drunk. Drugged.”

  “What!”

  He breathed deeply, and held it for a moment before releasing it again. “Went to see Bull. Took daughter out for lunch.”

  He opened his eyes, and winced. “Lights too bright,” he mumbled.

  Sofie stood up and used the dimmer set by the front door. “They’re lower now.” She could still see fairly clearly.

  Evan opened his eyes again. Sofie gasped. There was almost no color to them; they were black holes in his skull, showing nothing. “Help.”

  “Let’s get you upstairs,” she said firmly. She tugged on his arm but without his help she would have had no chance of moving him. Groaning, he sat up, and then got to his feet. “Sofie,” he said, his voice low and unsteady. “Sorry. Call Cristos. Don’t expect you to stay.”

  “I’m staying.” Slowly they made their way upstairs, his arm around her waist. Once on the wide sleeping platform he pulled off his jacket and slumped on to the bed. Sofie sat next to him. “Do you know what this is?”

  “Got to be nightshade. Go and use the net. I’ve made myself sick, so most of it is out
.”

  Sofie raced downstairs and booted up the computer, quickly hitting the browser and putting “nightshade – belladonna antidote” into the search engine. At the same time she had her mobile, ringing Cristos.

  “He’s come back, and he’s been given belladonna. At least that’s what we think.”

  “On my way. Ten minutes.”

  Sofie read the article quickly, and realized Evan must not be allowed to sleep. If he died, it would be from a coma. No convulsions. No time to read more. She raced back upstairs.

  Evan lay flat on his back, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. Sofie leaned forward and shook him. “Evan, no!”

  It was too late. He was asleep.

  *

  The doorbell rang. Sofie rushed to answer it, only glancing briefly in the monitor. “Quick, please help, oh God, he won’t wake up!”

  Cristos took the stairs three at a time, Sofie following as quickly as she could. The bed was drenched with water, Sofie having thrown a jugful over him. Evan was now half-propped up, pillows stuffed behind him.

  “The website said a sufferer would slip into a coma. I was too late.” Tears poured down Sofie’s face, unchecked, ignored.

  Cristos flicked a look at her and turned back to Evan. “Hitting him won’t do any good,” he said tersely, and bent to the briefcase he’d brought with him. He drew out a vial.

  “What is that?”

  “I’m going to take some blood. At the very least we’ll have evidence.” Cristos proved to be an efficient phlebotomist, wasting little time taking a couple of vials of blood. He spoke while he worked. “I can use these to get a search warrant for the gallery. And for evidence. I need to see Bent, since it’s his case. I want you to sign the label on the vials, to say you saw me take these. The derivatives of nightshade are common, but the herb itself is rarely used.”