Let the Dead Sleep

by Heather Graham

  “I guess I was wondering if there’s something wrong with me,” she said.

  “Wrong with you?”

  “Yes. I was thinking that you’re a healthy free heterosexual male, and I’m a healthy free heterosexual female and...well, you’re lying in my bed and you don’t seem interested in coming on to me.”

  Quinn blinked. He laughed.

  “Don’t go adding insult to injury!” she warned.

  He shook his head. He wanted to pull her straight into his arms. He felt as if he were soaring on a high that no drug could ever create.

  But he held still a few seconds longer. “Yes, at the beginning I thought you were a spoiled debutante—”

  “Better than an obnoxious hulk!”

  “But...”

  “But?”

  He did pull her to him then. He drew her close and adjusted his weight, bracing himself on his elbows, staring down at her.

  “But now—and I’m pretty sure you know—I all but worship the ground you walk on,” he told her huskily.

  “Wow. Worship the ground I walk on!”

  “It’s an expression.”

  “I like it,” she said.

  “But...”

  “Another but!”

  “You’re who you are, and I’m who I am. We are...what we are.”

  “You’re the one who told me we’re supposed to live normal lives.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  He leaned in. Her lips were damp and full, inviting. He felt their heat as he kissed her, the brush of his lips gentle. He rose just inches above her, determined to see her eyes again. “At this moment, not much else seems to matter—if you’re sure I’m what you really want. And I’m not prepared...I mean, I don’t walk around with condoms, whatever my past might have been.”

  She grinned. “I’m on the pill. I have had relationships before. Not many, but once upon a time I did have a life.”

  “Oh.”

  She smiled. “Would you ever have made a move?”

  “I...”

  “Answer yes!” she whispered.

  “Yes, God, yes!” he said.

  He kissed her again, molding his mouth to hers. He felt passion embrace him, kissed her long and deeply and with trembling force. She kissed him wickedly in return. He felt her tongue as it slipped into his mouth, arousing every carnal desire within him.

  She rose against him as their lips remained locked. They broke away, breathless, looking at each other again for the eternity of seconds, and then began reaching for each other—he to tug her T-shirt over her head, she to pluck at the buttons on his shirt. Her fingers were unfastening his belt buckle as his lips touched the naked flesh of her shoulder and he’d never felt more alive, hungrier, more in need of a woman’s touch.... He shimmied out of his jeans and briefs, traced his fingers down the length of her torso and rid her of the flannel pajama pants. They moved together again, and he relished the feel of their bare bodies touching, both eager to feel, to surrender to their base and yet beautiful desires.

  She made love as elegantly, as passionately, as uniquely, as she did everything else. Her fingers were like feathers as they teased his body; her kisses were light and taunting and giving. He drew away at one point just to look at her, to savor the way her long hair curled around her breasts, to gaze at the smoothness of her flesh. Then he dropped reverent kisses onto her breasts, tantalized her with his tongue, brushed her torso with his fingers and edged down the length of her body. She moved erotically against him, a rhythm beginning between them. He felt as though he were drowning in the scent and taste of her, wanting more and more. He rose above her, finding her lips again, and they shared another fiery kiss as he thrust within her. They held each other in an eternity of savoring what they had, before frantically plunging into a hip-locked dance that became everything in the world.

  He fought against his climax and yet the need was savage, desperate. And then he could hold back no longer, crying out in the night as she shuddered and trembled in his arms, melting into him as the frenzy slowly eased from them both.

  She was still in his arms, legs entwined with his, when his eyes met hers once more. She reached out and touched his cheek.

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so alive,” she murmured.

  He caught her fingers and kissed them. It seemed a miracle that she’d come into his life, a miracle that he’d found someone like her.

  “Well, you might say something, you know,” she whispered. “Like, was it as good for you as it was for me? Or...thank you?”

  And she could make him laugh...she could make the world worth fighting for.

  “Thank you,” he told her solemnly.

  That brought a tap to his cheek. “Hey!”

  He turned to her. “I’m just afraid...” He couldn’t find the right words. He worried that he’d insulted her, but to his astonishment, she understood what he was saying.

  “I know,” she said. “We are what we are. I’m just learning that, but it seems we have odd roles in life. Don’t worry, Quinn. I know we have to do what we have to do, that lives—souls, perhaps—depend on it. You’ve shown me the legacy my father left behind. I’ll never forget that. I’ll be very serious when we’re...when we’re looking for the bust, when we’re trying to solve this puzzle.” A smile raised the corners of her lips. “And I promise I’ll be extremely focused when I’m being shot at and the bad guys are trying to knife or strangle me.”

  He pulled her back into his arms. “We’re going to try damned hard not to let that happen again.”

  She freed herself, leaning over him, her hair teasing his flesh and the feel of her breasts seductive again although with no intent. “But that’s the point, isn’t it, Quinn? If I become who I must, we will be in danger.”

  She was right, of course.

  But he wasn’t an angel. He was just a man who’d been given a little help and shown a different path.

  He would always try to protect her.

  His life had changed so much since his wild and wicked days, since he’d died. He hadn’t become celibate, but his affairs were few and far apart.

  And she was touching him....

  He didn’t reply. He didn’t argue or agree with her words. He kissed her again. Slowly. And he made love to her again, as she made love to him. Hours seemed to pass before they both lay together, spent and silent.

  He started to leave the bed. She stopped him. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to your dad’s room. Billie and Jane will be around in the morning and—”

  “And it’s my house, and I don’t care what they know. Jane disapproves of any premarital sex whatsoever, but realizes it exists. And Billie...well, I believe Billie will think it’s just great or par for the course or...or he won’t think about it one way or the other. Stay here. I want to sleep beside you. Please.”

  “There will never be a sleep so sweet!” he told her. He grinned, remembering her made-up quote in the cemetery. “Ah, to be asleep at your side, peaceful and deep!”

  She smiled. “Now that, Mr. Quinn, is a very good line.”

  He lay down beside her again.

  And he did sleep sweetly. And deeply.

  Chapter Fourteen

  DANNI WOKE LATE, feeling as if she were still cocooned in the warmth of the night. She stretched out a hand, but she was alone now. Quinn had already risen.

  She showered, then dressed and went downstairs.

  There were several people in the shop. She slipped through to the little kitchen and poured herself a coffee before investigating what everyone was doing.

  Jane was showing jewelry at the counter.

  She heard Quinn speaking with Billie in her studio, and she made her way there.

  She found Billie pointing out a
few of her paintings on the walls. “Shouldn’t we get moving today?” she asked as she walked in.

  “Yes, but we were talking about the portrait you did of Gladys.”

  “I gave it to her daughter, who wasn’t very appreciative. I told you that,” she reminded Quinn.

  “I know, but I was thinking about the painting itself,” Quinn said.

  “We were talking about the fact that you’d never met her before she came into the store,” Billie added, “but you were doing a painting of her right when she did.”

  “It was weird, eerie. Uncomfortable,” Danni said.

  “Do you feel the desire to draw or paint a tomb—or the bayou?” Quinn asked.

  “What?”

  “I was wondering,” Billie said, “if maybe you can draw...things.”

  “Things,” she repeated.

  “Not to get too creepy about it, I’ll put it like this,” Quinn began. “We know that as human beings we only ever make use of a small part of the incredible computer we all have—the brain. Maybe that’s why some people have ESP. It’s a function they’ve managed to cultivate that others haven’t. Danni, you might have a way of processing thoughts—thoughts you don’t actually know you have—into some kind of forewarning.”

  “I looked at pictures online for a good hour last night. Maybe I’d just be imitating a picture I’d seen and we’d end up wasting a lot of time.”

  “What made you do a portrait of Gladys Simon?” Quinn asked.

  “I didn’t know I was doing a portrait of her. I sat down and got to work. That’s all.”

  Billie, Quinn and even Wolf stared at her.

  “I wish it was something I could just do,” she said. “But I’m not feeling the urge to sketch or work with oils or watercolors at the moment. Sorry.”

  Billie shrugged. “Figured I’d ask,” he said. “I made some egg sandwiches. Want to grab one before we get started?”

  They ate, had more coffee and prepared to leave. Danni ran back to check on Jane first, asking her if she’d be all right on her own for a few hours.

  “Well, of course, Danni, I’ll be fine,” Jane assured her. “Where are the three of you off to? Somewhere fun, I hope.”

  “It’ll be loads of fun, I’m sure,” Danni said. “See you tonight.”

  She left quickly, telling herself to ask Billie whether Jane knew about...what her father had done. And now, what she was trying to do.

  Not that she could explain it herself...

  “Where to first?” she asked.

  “The cemeteries. We need to try and get our hands on that bust. Then we’ll visit the property you found online,” Quinn said.

  “Do we know anything about that property yet?”

  He nodded grimly. “Detona Group is a ‘doing-business-as.’ The parent company is something called ‘Properties.’”

  “So what does that tell us?” Danni asked.

  “It’s a real estate firm—and the biggest shareholder is Brandt Shumaker.”

  “Oh,” Danni said. “Not really a surprise.”

  “No,” Quinn agreed.

  All three religious society mausoleums were in different cemeteries, but at least the cemeteries were close together. They decided to start farthest from the city and work their way back. Then, if the bust was found, they’d get it down to Angus Cafferty’s private collection as soon as possible.

  Wolf clearly wasn’t happy about staying in the car, but he waited obediently as they entered the first of the cemeteries. The Little French Chapel was larger than the customary family vault, but not immense. The seal hadn’t been touched in a hundred years, and there was little decoration on the brick structure, just a large cross erected above it.

  When they returned to the car, Wolf was anxious. Danni saw Quinn frown and look around, but there was no one parked near them and the few sightseers seemed to be nothing more than that.

  The next cemetery contained the great memorial built in honor of the Society of Angels. The structure was beautiful and well-tended, but it was plain, and while it had been there for over a century, as well, it was designed with the sleek modernism of the time, a style that left little room for gothic angels, cherubs or busts. Billie walked around and called out excitedly. Over the rear window, there were several little guardian statuettes—but they were two cherubs and a weeping angel, nothing that resembled the bust they were seeking.

  Returning to the car again, they noticed that Wolf was even more agitated. Danni saw that it worried Quinn; he stood still, carefully surveying the area.

  “What is it?” Billie asked.

  “I don’t know, but Wolf senses something. We’re going to take a roundabout route to the last cemetery—and I’m going to call Larue.”

  He did, then drove them to the third cemetery. When they left the car, Quinn lowered the windows completely. “Keep an eye out, boy,” he told the dog.

  He paused at the gates. There were a few people ahead of them with cemetery guide maps, but no one else about.

  Danni led the way, heading for the tomb of the Sisters of Mary’s Virtue. It was certainly the oldest of the tombs they’d come across and the most ornate.

  And it was large, built in a T-shape with the entry on the vertical side.

  A three-foot wrought-iron fence surrounded the structure. The grassy area inside was overgrown. The tomb had been built in the style of a gothic church, with two gargoyles guarding the main entry. There were stained-glass windows in the front and Quinn thought there might be more around the back.

  They climbed over the little fence and Danni followed as Quinn hurried toward the entry. A gate protected it, and beyond that, a door, rather than a seal, allowed access.

  “I’m checking the back,” Billie said. “This is a big one. There could be another entrance.” He began to walk around.

  Quinn pulled at a rung of the wrought-iron gate; it opened without a squeak. He glanced at Danni, shrugged and set his hand on the heavy wooden inner door. It, too, gave without protest. They went in.

  For a minute, the sudden darkness in the tomb after the bright daylight cast Danni into momentary blindness. She blinked a few times and then she could see. The tomb was set up as a chapel. There was an altar toward the rear and two hallways going to the right and left behind it. She realized that almost every inch of wall space was a ledge for entombment.

  A large gold cross sat on the altar and on either side were statuettes of the Virgin Mary, hands folded in prayer, her eyes raised to heaven.

  “I’ll go left, you go right?” Danni suggested.

  Quinn nodded. “This place is enormous, but I’ll be able to hear you if you shout. Call if you need me.”

  Danni strode ahead to look past the altar. From the rear, stained glass let in a strange and eerie light.

  To the left, a hallway passed rows and rows of deceased sisters. She started down it. As she walked, she saw plaques on the walls, most in French, that gave simple names and dates of the sisters’ births and deaths. There were breaks along the way with little altars. Icons of saints sat on the ledges, along with other pieces of funerary art such as paintings of children cradling little lambs, images of a dying Christ in the arms of his mother, cherubs and angels. She tried to move quickly and yet make sure she saw them all.

  Empty sconces would have held torches at one time; now their brackets were skeletal and rusted. At the far end of the tomb, she saw a single ledge—with a bust on it.

  She began to walk toward the ledge and then paused.

  There it was.

  After reading about it, the bust was exactly what she’d expected. It was life-size, depicting a man with generous lips that should have made him appealing. Instead, the curl of the lips seemed to indicate a careless cruelty. Rich hair waved over the forehead. The entire face was class
ic and striking.

  The eyes...

  They were open.

  Watching.

  As she was about to call out for Quinn she heard a loud thump that seemed to come from the rear of the tomb.

  She started back but heard him shout, “I’m on it!”

  She felt an impulse to stop him, but Billie had been around back. Something might have happened to him; she wanted Quinn to make sure he was unhurt.

  She whirled around, hearing a sound like stone sliding along stone. Then, nothing. The tomb was silent.

  She hurried back along the hallway and paused abruptly. Someone was behind her. It wasn’t Quinn. She knew that before she turned.

  She screamed even as arms reached out for her....

  And a hand clamped down on her mouth.

  * * *

  Billie had guessed correctly—there was more than one entry to the vast mausoleum. Quinn had assumed it might have been at the rear of the tomb, in one of the wings, but it wasn’t. It was located to the far right of the main chapel area and it wasn’t actually a door. The opening was low to the ground and he realized it was how a coffin would be slid into the tomb—or out of it.

  He crawled through it and walked around to the back.

  At first, he didn’t see Billie.

  Then he did.

  The elderly man was on the ground, half-covered by the grass growing long and thick in the little fenced yard around the mausoleum.

  Quinn’s heart thudded with fear as he rushed to Billie, hunkering down to check for injuries and a pulse. No pulse, but no blood, either; he hadn’t been knifed or shot.

  A moment later, Quinn found a weak beat at the side of Billie’s throat. He looked around, swearing. The police had yet to arrive.

  Quinn pulled out his phone and called for an ambulance. As he did, Billie groaned and tried to sit up.

  “Lie still,” Quinn told him. “Lie still. Help is coming.”

  But Billie grasped his arm. His gray eyes were filled with misery, his bone-thin face contorted.

  “Three of them. I saw them just as they got me...hit my head, butt of a gun... Leave me...they’re in the tomb!”