Touch Me Not

by Julie Kistler

  After bouncing through a series of rooms labeled Treasures of the Ancient World, they finally made it to the big open gallery where the student exhibit was. The gallery was filled to the brim with teens and preteens, probably a good sign that they were in the right place.

  “Stay together,” Gilly tried one last time, but the presence of so many cute members of the opposite sex was like honey to a hive of bees. Gilly left the students to their socializing while she dutifully admired the artwork. And then she hung around until she could reasonably collect her charges and shoo them back into the minibus.

  As she idled, she noticed that Susie had sneaked back to the Treasures of the Ancient World. Better go after her, she decided, before the girl got any further afield.

  “Wow, Ms. Q, did you see this?” Susie asked, her voice hushed with awe, her nose pressed to a glass case. “There are vases and pottery and this really cool painting where the lady doesn’t have a top on and she’s carrying snakes. It’s so cool!”

  Minoan Snake Priestess, Gilly read off the card. “It is interesting, isn’t it?”

  “I just love this ancient stuff,” Susie said with a sigh. “I did like the Greeks the best, but now I think these Minoans are just too cool. There are snakes and bulls everywhere. Does that mean something—snakes and bulls?”

  “I don’t know a whole lot about the Minoans, but if you want to do some research and do a special project when we get back to school, I think that would be great.”

  “Cool!”

  “But right now we really need to round up the rest of the gang.” Gilly glanced at her watch. “It’s past time to get back.”

  “Bummer.” But the girl came along willingly enough. And then it was a game of hide-and-seek for several minutes until everybody was tracked down and accounted for, then finally herded back onto the bus.

  Gilly sank into her seat, ready to rest for a minute.

  But then Javier, one of her savvier students, asked, “Ms. Quinn, who was that guy following you?”

  Her blood chilled. “What guy?” she asked carefully.

  “Didn’t you see him? Wherever we went, he went,” Javier told her. “I thought maybe it was Tony’s dad ‘cause, you know, sometimes Tony has to look out for him, but this guy was white.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Tall, I guess. Kinda old, like at least as old as you. I don’t know.” He lifted his narrow shoulders. “Hard to tell, y’know.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She swallowed. “No, I didn’t see him, Javier. Why did you think he was following me?”

  “At first I wasn’t sure, because it could’ve just been a coincidence, like he wanted to look at the same things we did.” The boy’s face furrowed with concentration. “But then when you went to get Susie, he went there, too. And that seemed weird to me.”

  “You did the right thing by telling me,” she assured him. “Good job, Javier.”

  So she was being followed, and that creepy feeling wasn’t just her imagination. Whoever this jerk was, he was following when her students were around, which was even worse. But who would follow her?

  She hadn’t come up with any real suspects by the time the bus dropped them all off at her apartment, where the field trip entered phase two. She’d had this brilliant idea to treat them all to a picnic supper at her place and show off her new living-room mural as the perfect end to their art-centered trip.

  Now she just wished she could take a hot bath and be alone for a few minutes. She shook her head as she opened the door and let the kids in. This, too, was unlike her. She was indefatigable; didn’t everyone always say that?

  But that was before Luke came back into her life, making her angry and frustrated, before muggers decided to come after her with knives, before Nightshade and his groupies haunted her at every turn, before some maniac started following her night and day.

  Now she was tired and cranky and antisocial. Oh, God. She was turning into Luke.

  The kids were rambunctious and hungry, so she turned on some music for them as she made hot dogs and dished out chips and soft drinks. It literally took ten minutes to throw their supper together. They were all laughing and running around the small apartment, having a great time, creating quite a ruckus what with both the TV and the CD player blaring. Gilly didn’t even hear the phone when it rang.

  “Ms. Quinn, it’s the telephone!” one of her students called out over the din, holding up the receiver. “It’s for you!”

  She skirted a path through kids and hot dogs and flying potato chips, finally arriving at the phone. Covering her free ear, she shouted, “Hello?” into the receiver.

  “It’s Luke,” he said tersely. “Please don’t shout at me. And what the hell is going on over there?”

  “Luke?” This was a surprise. After the reception she’d gotten from her aunt and uncle, she really hadn’t expected to hear from him. “Could you speak up? I can hardly hear you.”

  “Are you having a party?”

  “No,” she told him, still talking loudly just to hear herself over the commotion in her apartment. “Just some of my art students.”

  “I thought artists might’ve been a quieter bunch.”

  He sounded marginally more amused than pained, so she let it pass. But she steeled herself to retain her anger and not let him get to her the way he always did.

  “Hold on a sec,” she said, carrying the cordless phone into her bedroom where it was a lot calmer and giving herself a chance to concentrate on being mad at him. “Okay, now I’m away from the hubbub. Talk.”

  “I hear you were so anxious to talk to me that you threatened both Fitzhughs with bodily harm,” he told her dryly. “A matter of life and death. And then you run off and have a party?”

  “I didn’t threaten anyone with anything, much as I would’ve liked to,” she returned tartly. “Did you know that dear Aunt Abigail took me to task for corrupting your morals?”

  “What?” Even Luke’s soft voice rose on that one.

  Well, perhaps she shouldn’t have said that part about corrupting his morals. That wasn’t exactly what Aunt Abby had said. Still, that was the implication. Without thinking, she said hotly, “You told her about the kiss! How could you?”

  Oh, well. She had hoped to live her life without ever mentioning the damn thing, but her tongue sort of got away from her.

  “I did what?” he demanded.

  “The kiss, stupid! You told her about that innocent, unplanned little accident in the kitchen. So then she accused me of hurting you, as if I were the town bad girl leading you on or something.” She paused for a breath. “Lucas Blackthorn, brokenhearted over one kiss? I hardly think so! I told her and Uncle Fitz that you were not the type—”

  “But I didn’t,” he interrupted.

  “Didn’t what?”

  “I didn’t say anything to Abigail about the—” He broke off suddenly, and his voice dropped even lower. “About the kiss. Why would I tell my housekeeper?”

  “Well, I couldn’t imagine why you would.” Somewhat mollified, Gilly shook her head. Thank goodness. At least he’d had the sense not to spill the beans to Abby. “She knows, though. She called it my ‘misbehavior on Wednesday.’ What else could it be?”

  Silence greeted her over the telephone wire.

  “What else could it be?” she asked again.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally in an odd, strained voice.

  “I suppose she could just mean visiting you so late, talking you into helping St. Benny’s, that kind of thing,” she said doubtfully. “Did you tell her about that?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. But you’re still going to help, aren’t you?” She moved closer to the bedroom window, where she could gaze up at the bluff where his house stood. “You promised, Luke.”

  His voice was terse and cool when he responded. “I’ll tell Abigail to cut a check for your fund tomorrow. How much do you want?”

  “It costs about three thousand dollars a year for each of
our students’ tuition. You could sponsor a student—or a couple—if you wanted to.”

  “Fine.”

  “Are you in a hurry or something? You sound awfully abrupt,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be.” He hesitated, and his tone became a tad darker, more dangerous. “I’m just furious that my household servants have taken it upon themselves to censor my phone calls and interfere in my personal life. It’s obscene.”

  “So you didn’t tell them to turn me away, no matter the cost?”

  His voice softened. “No, of course not.”

  Oh, heavens. When he sounded like that, she could forgive him just about anything. She sent a hopeful glance up at Blackthorn Manor, imagining Luke in his rumpled clothes, maybe lying on his bed as he cradled the phone. The image was irresistible. But if she asked him what he was wearing, it would sound like some sleazy 900 line. She refrained, steering herself back to business.

  “Luke, I already sent out the press release with your name on it. It says we’re organizing a campaign to save the neighborhood, and as an alum of St. Benny’s you’re standing with us. You okayed that, right?”

  His tone was rueful. “I suppose this means the press is going to be down on me big-time now that they know where I am.”

  “Maybe.” She hesitated, chewing her lip. “I didn’t say where you were, but I suppose they could figure it out. But I couldn’t wait! We only have two weeks till the city council votes. And without someone with some clout on our team, it’s down the tubes for St. Benny’s.”

  “Just Benny’s. Not a saint anymore, remember?”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s a hard habit to break.” She sat on the edge of the bed, but she could still see through the window, up to the outline of his mansion against the winter sky. “It’s not just St. Benny’s—I mean, Benny’s—that’ll go under the wrecking ball, you know. My apartment building is safe for the time being, but half my students’ homes, my parents’ old house on Division Street—they’re all scheduled to go. Even the museum where I took my students on a field trip today won’t be saved. You’d love the museum, Luke. They have a photography gallery that may even have some of your stuff in it. And a great collection of things from ancient Greece and Minoa.”

  “There is no Minoa,” he corrected. “Minoans were from Crete.”

  She sat up straighter. “Like your cave?”

  “Exactly like my cave,” he returned.

  “Well, you might want to check out the Minoan collection, then. You might be very interested in the paintings and the pottery, because they probably look like your photo of that cow.” She was being devious, but she couldn’t help it. “Of course, you’d better go as soon as possible. Because that museum will be ancient history itself if the city council has its way.”

  “Oh, Gilly, what am I going to do with you?” But she could hear the amusement in his voice. “I said I would help, didn’t I?”

  “So I can put you down on my committee?” she said eagerly. “You’d be a real presence at Benny’s, on our side all the way. So you’ll come to Career Day, right? And the Snow Ball?”

  “Wait a minute. I never said—” He stopped and started again, more resolute this time. “I can’t, Gilly. Money is no problem and I’ll allow you to use my name any way you see fit. But my name, not my body. I can’t leave the house yet. Not yet.”

  “But, Luke—”

  “Abigail will send you a check first thing in the morning.” His voice was so soft she had to strain to hear it. “That’s the best I can do.”

  “Let’s at least talk about this,” she tried. “What about the museum? I could meet you there and show you—”

  But he had already hung up.

  “The people at that house are so rude,” she told the receiver.

  She knew she had already spent too much time away from the children in her living room and she had to get back. But if she hadn’t been otherwise occupied, she swore she would’ve marched right up to the manor and given Luke a piece of her mind.

  What was he so afraid of? Why did he insist he couldn’t leave the house? This was globe-trotting, thrill-seeking Lucas Blackthorn they were talking about. It was all just too weird for her.

  “Okay, kids, party’s over,” she announced, falling back into instructor mode as she reentered the living room. She’d left them alone a good ten minutes and nothing was destroyed. What a turn of events! “Susie, you’re riding with Amanda, right? Kendall, your mother is at the door.”

  But once she had them cleaned up and sent off with the right number of parents and rides, her apartment seemed awfully quiet.

  As the shadows deepened in West Riverside, as evening passed into night, Gilly was still brooding about Luke.

  “Damn him, anyway!” Didn’t he know how much she needed his face at a few rallies? Didn’t he know how much good it could do for a high-and-mighty Blackthorn like him to pay a visit or two to a wellplaced politico? Luke was a hero. And she needed him on her side.

  But it didn’t look like she was going to get him.

  “You know, Luke,” she announced to the dark window, “if you won’t come out of that place and help me, I really have only one choice.”

  She paused, giving the towers of Blackthorn Manor an appraising look.

  “Back to plan A.” She smiled. “I storm the citadel.”

  Chapter Six

  Gilly marched out of her apartment, ready to go forth and do battle. But she hadn’t stepped one foot away from her door when she heard screams.

  “Stop, thief!” Mrs. Mooshman cried, flapping the door to the stairs as she struggled to hold on to someone just inside the stairwell.

  Gilly ran to her side. It was all very confusing, but there appeared to be a rather small, disheveled man in there, and he was desperately trying to shake himself loose from Mrs. Mooshman’s ferocious grasp.

  “I’ve got him!” Mrs. Mooshman yelled triumphantly, wrapping his arm in a death grip and trying to smack him with her flashlight with her free hand. “Let go of my mother’s candlesticks,” she puffed, giving him a few good whacks and trying with all her might to drag him into the hall.

  Dropping her backpack, Gilly propped open the door with one foot and maneuvered around to get a good grip of her own on the guy. He had a knit mask over his face and he smelled awful. He had quite a mouth on him, too. He cursed the women in two different languages as they struggled. But he was fairly small, and the two of them together were making progress, inching him out of the stairwell. At last they managed to tug the top half of him into the hall and knock him down, and then Gilly sat on his chest to hold him. With a fearsome scream, Mrs. Mooshman wound up and clonked him on the head with the flashlight. The bandit went limp.

  “Let’s get him into the hall here,” Mrs. Mooshman suggested. She was out of breath, but she went on, anyway, dragging and talking at the same time. “I suppose I’ll have to go into his pockets if I want my money. Dirty, filthy creep! He broke into my apartment, do you believe it? There I was, watching ‘The Gossip Show’ in my bedroom, and I heard my front door open. So I got my flashlight, and there he was, the creep, big as life, stealing my mother’s good silver candlesticks and taking all my cash out of that little box I keep on the mantel. He even took my NOD whistle and my Dresden shepherdess! Well, I got him, didn’t I?” The old lady kicked him with one house slipper.

  “Mrs. Mooshman, he could’ve had a gun,” Gilly protested. “You shouldn’t have run after him yourself.”

  “Oh, fiddle-faddle.” But as her neighbor bent over to retrieve her beloved candlesticks, the burglar suddenly reared up, taking them both by surprise. With a snarl, he pushed Mrs. Mooshman to her knees, grabbed the candlesticks and brandished one high in the air, threatening to bash Gilly’s head in.

  With one final rush of motion, he seized Gilly’s backpack and began to scuttle down the stairs with his booty.

  “Call the police!” Gilly cried, scuttling right after him. No way some scumbag was steal
ing her backpack, loaded down with money and ID, a bunch of school stuff—even her sixth graders’ corrected French papers. “Drop it, buster!”

  He might’ve been small, but he was pretty fast, and he was down the stairs and out into the street a few strides ahead of her.

  On the straightaway, her long legs and his heavy burdens began to make a difference. She was catching up. If she could just bridge those final inches, she felt sure she could snag the strap of her backpack.

  But her lungs felt like they were going to explode from gulping in too much of the icy air, and her sturdy boots were having trouble finding purchase on the slippery ice and snow. Even the streetlights were conspiring against her; most of them seemed to be burned out or broken.

  Dark. Cold. Slippery. But she had to catch him. She had to.

  Just out of reach. So close. Not quite yet. Now.

  Putting everything she had into one final burst of energy, she lunged for the thief. But her fingers curled around nothing but air. And her face contacted neither his smelly body nor the hard cold ground.

  Instead, she was dangling in the wind, captured in midleap. Hard solid arms held her fast.

  Astonished, she cried, “He’s getting away!” and wriggled and tussled against the binding embrace. But the grip only tightened. And then she took a good look at who exactly held her so securely.

  There was no helpful streetlight to illuminate him, but it didn’t matter. Identifying the dark stranger was a cinch. “Nightshade,” she whispered.

  Of course it was him. Who else was that tall, that intense, shrouded in a long black coat and a fedora, with a soft inky scarf obscuring his jaw? Oh, yes, and he was wearing a pair of impenetrable black sunglasses.

  “Nightshade,” she said again, and her body seemed to tingle and burn where his gloved hands held her. “Where did you come from?”

  “I heard you scream for help,” he whispered.

  “But how? I was completely alone—”

  He put a gloved finger, soft and warm, over her lips. “It doesn’t matter. Just know that when you’re in trouble, I will hear you.”