Grave of Angels
Page 27
“Didn’t Chelsea tell you what happened?”
“She has no memory of that part of it.”
“Funny thing. Neither do I.”
She nodded, seeming to accept the fact that she would get no more out of him on that subject. She leaned forward, and he had the sense that now she was getting to the heart of the interview, the thing she really wanted to know.
“When you fired the gun in the stairwell, you thought were shooting at Chelsea, didn’t you?”
He frowned. The question both surprised and irritated him. That was the one part of the whole episode he’d done his best to forget.
“Yeah,” he said reluctantly.
“What made you think she was there?”
“I thought I saw her. And…heard her.”
“You thought she was talking to you?”
“Singing to me.”
“Singing?”
He shifted in his seat. “I don’t know, I guess I’d lost more blood than I thought. It sure as hell cost me, didn’t it? Christ, sometimes I can still hear it—that goddamn Shakespeare song about the willow tree.”
The nun’s eyes showed something, but he couldn’t tell what. Then it was gone and she was rising, pushing her chair back, the metal legs scraping the floor.
“So at the end,” she said, “you wanted her dead.”
“Just for that moment.”
“If you had to do it over again, would you still keep her alive?”
“Sure I would. I never had it in for her. There’s just one thing I’d do differently.”
She waited, standing by the table.
“Remember how you were hunting for me in Stiletto, and I amscrayed out the window? I wouldn’t play it that way. I’d wait for you in that back hallway and when you came looking…I’d snap your neck.” He raised his manacled hands and pantomimed the movement. “Wouldn’t be hard. It’s a slender neck.”
He studied her face, hoping for a reaction, something he could carry with him into the long dark tunnel of his future. She gave him nothing. She merely turned to go.
“How about you, Sister Kate? Anything you’d do differently?”
She looked back, her hand on the door.
“On the landing,” she said, “I’d pull the trigger.”
Swann watched the door swing shut with an echoing clang. Then he leaned back in his chair and laughed.
A week after meeting with Swann, Kate drove to Victoria Brewer’s house.
The sun had set by the time she powered the Jag to the crest of Beverly Glen and turned onto Mulholland Drive. After ten days in the shop, the car was running smoothly again, the engine purring like a panther as the car prowled the night.
She took the curves fast, glimpsing flashes of the city past a scrim of dark foliage. The evening was warm and windless, the world hushed.
She appreciated the quiet, the privacy. Since the story had broken she’d had little of either. Media attention had been unrelenting for the first week. The police had endless questions. The office phone rang with requests for personal protection. It seemed no one in LA could afford to be without the services of Guardian Angel. And there were the funerals for Grange and Di Milo, the painful hugs shared with Di Milo’s family, and more painful still, the absence of any family at Grange’s burial. No wife or children. He’d been alone.
She was gratified that Skip Slater attended both services. The publicity had been good to Celebrity Whack-A-Mole. The site was more reviled and detested than ever, which, of course, only made it more popular. But Skip didn’t seem happy. There were rumors that he was negotiating a sale, that he wanted nothing more to do with the site. She didn’t know if the rumors were true. She would find out, in time.
The low driveway that descended to the Brewer house came up. She slowed the car and pulled in. No one was watching the house now. Swann’s camera, wired into a utility pole, was taken as evidence. For days, the media people camped out on this street, until police harassment and declining public interest drove them away.
She parked near the steps and got out, leaving her Glock in the glove compartment. She wouldn’t need it here. A pair of Guardian Angel bodyguards, assigned to deter publicity-seeking copycats, were on twenty-four-hour duty at the house. One of them waved from the front window, and she lifted her hand in reply.
What she had to do next was hard. As hard, in its own way, as anything she had done on the night when Chelsea had been taken.
She heard Banning’s voice in her memory:
You’ll handle it. You always do.
It was one of the few things he hadn’t lied to her about.
She walked to the front door. Through the window, Chelsea was visible, seated with her mother on the divan, the two of them chatting like friends. Chelsea had spent two days in the hospital before coming here to stay with her mother. Her recuperation was nearly complete. She looked rested and healthy. Almost ready to move back to her own place, resume her life, start going out again. More parties, more wild nights. Or maybe not.
That was why Kate was here. To talk with Chelsea about her future. About choices, and mistakes, and the high price those mistakes could carry.
If the girl would listen. If she would learn.
Before going in, Kate said a little prayer.
As always, I invite readers to visit me at michaelprescott.net, where you’ll find news about upcoming or rereleased books, a bibliography, contact info, and more.
Many people contributed to Grave of Angels. In particular, I would like to thank David Downing for his sensitive and adept editing of the final draft; Deborah Schneider for handling the sale of the novel to Amazon Publishing; Cathy Gleason, Deborah’s assistant, who took care of the paperwork; Maria Gomez and Terry Goodman of Amazon, who brought me on board; Lorin Oberweger, Donald Maass, and Gary Heidt for their insights and encouragement; Diana Ross for proofreading the early versions; Deb Taber for copyediting the final draft; and Margaret Falk for her feedback and support.
—MP
Photograph by Keith Mills, 2005
Born and raised in New Jersey, Michael Prescott attended Wesleyan University, majoring in film studies, then pursued a career as a screenwriter in Los Angeles. In 1986 he wrote his first novel; published steadily since that time, he is now the author of twenty-two thrillers, one of which, Shiver, was recently made into a movie starring Danielle Harris and John Jarratt. Currently at work on a new book, Prescott is also republishing his older titles in e-book editions, which have found a wide new audience.