To the Grave

by Carlene Thompson

  “Only to talk.”

  “I don’t have time to talk. I’m going somewhere.” She took a step to the right, planning to walk past him to her car, but he moved, too, blocking her. Then he stood still, grinning at her. “I don’t have time to talk to you, Mr. Arcos. I’m in a hurry.” He continued to grin. “Get out of my way, Mr. Arcos.”

  He held up his large hands in a gesture of surrender. “You are offended because I touched you. Once again, I am so sorry. I should not have touched you, but you would have been more frightened if you’d simply run into a big, hulking man like me. Still, I mean you no harm. I only came here to talk to you.” He nodded vaguely toward a black car sitting at the curb. “See? That is my automobile. I pulled up just before you came out of the house. You are too intelligent to think I would park my car in front of your home if I meant to come in and hurt you.”

  Catherine glanced at the cell phone lying on the wet autumn grass. She knew the connection between her and Marissa had been broken when she’d dropped the phone, jarring the battery, and she wouldn’t take her eyes off this man long enough to reach down for it, even if Marissa called her back.

  He wore a long, black raincoat, and an extremely large tiger’s-eye ring glittered on the middle finger of his left hand. Squinting through the rain, she saw dark troughs beneath his eyes along with deep lines etched into his forehead and around his mouth. His skin was almost frighteningly pale. The man looked exhausted and sick. She could also tell he was drunk.

  “Mr. Arcos, I told you that I have somewhere to go now,” she said stiffly.

  Their gazes locked. He looked sincere yet amused. In his near-black eyes, though, Catherine detected an impishness that had nothing to do with the glitter of alcohol. Also, his Eastern European accent seemed practiced and exaggerated. He was trying to act charmingly innocent, even slightly buffoonish, because he’d had too much to drink, but his act wasn’t convincing. He was neither innocent nor a buffoon, and Catherine’s scrutiny of his eyes revealed dilated pupils. He’d had more than alcohol. He’d taken a drug or maybe more than one. The man was operating on alcohol mixed with God-knew-what chemicals. She wouldn’t underestimate him.

  “I heard you visited the Nordine Gallery to see my paintings today. Ken Nordine described your strange reaction to Lady.” Nicolai raised an already-arched eyebrow. “May we not go into your home and talk about it?” He looked up at the lowering slate sky. “We can’t keep standing here in this weather.”

  Catherine fought an urge to turn and run for her front door, but she knew he’d just follow her, and he was so big and strong. For a moment she panicked. Then she glanced across the street and saw alert, athletic Steve Crown’s face watching them intently from behind his front window. Steve and his wife maintained a deep concern for the safety of this street where they raised their three young children. Both kept close eyes on the activities. Catherine knew Steve already saw that she needed help. No doubt, his wife stood right behind him, calling 911, while Steve was pulling away from the window. Their presence gave Catherine courage.

  “No matter how bad the weather gets, I’m not taking you into my house,” she said. “You need to leave.”

  Arcos raised his shoulders. “Would you like to go someplace quiet to talk? A bar? Or perhaps my place. It isn’t far from here. You could look at more of my work while we have a drink, get warm, talk … art.”

  “Get away from me.” Catherine made her voice cold and hard. “The police are coming.”

  “The police?” He looked around and then laughed. “I don’t see the police. I think you’re drunk. Or delusional. Isn’t that one of the words you doctors of the mind use? ‘Delusional’?”

  Catherine thought of running toward her house, but she stood firm. “Don’t play this stupid game with me. If you stop right now, nothing will happen to you. If you don’t—”

  “What will you do, Miss Gray? Hit me? Or do you have something worse in mind? Are you capable of violence?” He leaned closer to her. “Are you capable of killing if someone stands in the way of what you want? I think you are. I think you already have.”

  Deep inside her, nearly overwhelming alarm rose in Catherine. The fixed smile had vanished from Nicolai’s face, leaving it sharp edged and menacing. Even his lips drew back from the teeth in the near-feral position of a snarl. He was a big man charged on alcohol and drugs and he was someone to be feared—

  Suddenly Nicolai’s large hands closed over Catherine’s shoulders and jerked her toward him. He held her so close they almost touched and she could feel his hot, sweet-sour alcohol breath on her face as he spoke just above an agonized whisper.

  “What did you think when you looked at the portrait of my lady? She was my lady, you know. No matter what anyone else thought. No matter what she let them think or made them think or what she did, she was mine. I could have it no other way because it couldn’t be any other way. She didn’t always understand how it had to be, but I understood.” He nodded slowly, absently. “Yes, I understood.”

  Catherine kicked with all her might, but he stood just an inch too far away for her boot to connect with his leg.

  He glared at her. “She didn’t want him, you stupid woman. She never really wanted him, even in the beginning. She made a mistake, that’s all. And now—” A deep, strangling sound came from his throat before he jerked Catherine closer and said viciously, “But she will always be mine. Death cannot separate us. We were for each other. We were of each other. Renée and Nicolai—one person. Always. No matter how things looked. Didn’t you understand? Didn’t he understand? Is that why you killed her and then went to the gallery to get another look at what you destroyed?”

  Steve Crown had appeared behind Arcos. Bent at the waist, Crown charged the artist. Crown’s shoulder drove into Arcos’s midsection, breaking his hold on Catherine and knocking him flat on the slick ground. Catherine barely had time to move before Arcos’s right leg rose and snapped out at his attacker. Crown’s left leg buckled and he fell to his knees, groaning. With almost unbelievable speed, Arcos jumped up and stalked toward Crown. Catherine screamed as Arcos kicked Crown in the ribs. He fell flat and rolled onto his back. Before he could cross his arms across his rib section, though, Arcos kicked Crown again, this time even harder.

  As Steve Crown moaned and rolled into a fetal position, Catherine burst into an instinctive run for her house. She’d only managed a few steps before she slid. Arcos caught her before she fell flat. He jerked her to a standing position and then closed his hands around her throat.

  “No, you will not escape me,” Nicolai Arcos hissed into her ear. “And you will not escape her. Renée will follow you to the grave.”

  Arcos tightened his grip on Catherine’s neck. He held her at arm’s length. Again she kicked wildly, but she couldn’t make contact with his legs. She flailed her arms uselessly. She couldn’t scream—she had no air as Arcos’s hands tightened. In the background, she heard Steve Crown moaning, moaning.…

  Then the sound of a police siren cut through the wet night air. Someone had called the police. Crown’s wife, Catherine thought dully.

  Suddenly the pressure on Catherine’s neck loosened and she tumbled, limp as a rag doll. Blinking against the raindrops, she watched as Arcos dashed to his car. In what seemed one smooth motion, he’d climbed inside and begun speeding down the street.

  Meanwhile, Catherine’s gaze had switched from Arcos’s car back to the patrol car just as in horror she saw a little boy run from his lawn into the street, directly in front of the police car. He froze and Catherine froze at the sight of the patrol car swerving violently, the sound of tires screeching audibly above the siren’s wail.

  Miraculously, the car stopped about a foot from the little boy. A woman came shrieking into the street to clutch the child, both of them standing rigidly in front of the patrol vehicle, as Nicolai Arcos’s car disappeared around a corner.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  1

  Catherine clambered to her feet as the
patrol car pulled to the curb in front of her house. In a minute, Robbie Landers helped her stand steady while her partner rushed to Steve Crown. Although Robbie breathed hard, her voice remained calm. “Who was that man?”

  “Nicolai Arcos. He’s an artist. I’ve never met him before. He was high on drugs and alcohol and—” Catherine moved closer to Steve. “Oh, Steve, I’m so sorry!” she called to him, and then turned to Robbie. “You should be chasing Arcos!”

  Robbie held Catherine’s arm firmly. “The woman who called nine-one-one got the license number of the other car. My partner Jeff alerted all patrol cars in this area to be on the lookout for the vehicle when we lost sight of it. He also called the paramedics.”

  “I’m okay, but I’m worried about Steve,” Catherine said. “Steve Crown. He was looking out his front window when Arcos grabbed me in the yard.”

  “This man didn’t come to your door and then grab you?”

  “No, I was outside headed for my car and talking to Marissa on my cell phone. The wind caught my umbrella, and between trying to hold on to it and the phone I didn’t see him pull up. He just seemed to appear.”

  Steve’s wife was already running across the street toward her husband, who was trying to stand in spite of the deputy’s efforts to hold him still. Mrs. Crown commanded, “Steve, lie still this instant,” and he immediately subsided. She turned on Catherine. “Who was that man?”

  “Someone I’ve never seen before.” Catherine felt ridiculously guilty, as if the attack by Arcos were her fault. “The police will get him.”

  “They’d better,” Mrs. Crown answered grimly.

  “Or else she will, and then God help him,” Robbie muttered close to Catherine’s ear, managing to make her smile. Robbie was right—the big-boned, taut-muscled Mrs. Crown looked like she could take down a grizzly bear. Gently Robbie began leading Catherine toward the house. “Let’s get you inside out of this rain.”

  Twenty minutes later, paramedics had pronounced Catherine’s neck bruised, but they’d detected no sign of serious trauma. Still, they advised that she go to the hospital for X-rays. She promised she would, although she had no intention of leaving her house unless her pain worsened.

  Steve Crown was a different matter. He had at least one broken rib and a second that was either badly cracked or broken. The paramedics loaded him into the ambulance, his wife barking orders nonstop, and sped off to the hospital.

  Robbie and her partner, Jeff Beal, took Catherine into the house, where she gave them a full report about the incident and the little she knew of Nicolai Arcos. They were leaving when James arrived, surprised to see them and nearly speechless when they told him what had happened. After Robbie and Jeff left, James took Catherine in his arms. “When I think of what that maniac could have done to you…” He trailed off, tightening his hold on her. “You weren’t going to let him in the house, were you? Because I’ve told you about him. He’s crazy.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy? Of course I wasn’t going to let him in the house.”

  “Then how—”

  “He caught me on my way to my car. I was coming to check on you because you never called me after you got back from the morgue,” Catherine interrupted sharply.

  James’s embrace loosened. “Oh. I’m sorry.” She stared at him. “I called the Moreaus again.”

  “You called them before you called me.”

  “When I got back, I was furious. All I thought of was that they still didn’t know Renée is dead. I acted on impulse.”

  “Okay. Did you reach them this time?”

  “Yeah. I spoke to her mother, but I don’t want to talk about that conversation right now. She wouldn’t let me talk to Reneé’s father, Gaston.”

  “Did she say she’d tell him?”

  “She said she wouldn’t, that she doesn’t believe me.”

  “Do you think she does?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think so.”

  “But she still won’t let you talk to Gaston.” James shook his head. “She won’t let you tell the man who sexually abused his daughter for years that she’s dead.”

  James’s face paled and his mouth opened slightly. “Sexually abused?”

  “Oh, come on, James. Did you think I didn’t guess? I am a psychologist, you know. What man travels for years all over Europe with his little girl? You told me he did. She only came back to New Orleans when she was sixteen. No doubt she was too old to interest him then. And even if I hadn’t known about all the years she spent with Daddy, I would have been almost positive of abuse by her behavior—the hypersexuality, alcoholism, lack of friendships, inability to trust, mood swings, I could go on and on.”

  She stopped, seeing James’s eyes almost burning holes through her. “Don’t look at me that way. You said she had a rough past. That was putting it mildly. I’m right about him, aren’t I? If I’m wrong, you don’t want me to keep thinking something so awful about the man.”

  “Yes, dammit, you’re right!” James’s voice lowered. “She never admitted it until we’d been married over a year. I’ve never seen Gaston since then. I should have done something.”

  “To Gaston? What could you do? The damage was done. As for Renée, you stayed with her so long because you thought you could help her with your love and your kindness. That’s certainly nothing to be ashamed of, James. I also know you didn’t tell me about the abuse because you were protecting her privacy, even after everything she’d done to you.” Catherine paused. “Sometimes I hate her and I feel like shaking you for not realizing Renée needed professional help and divorcing her before she nearly ruined your life. Other times, I feel sorry for her and your attempt to help her only makes me love you more.”

  “She always promised to change.”

  “I’m sure she did and I can’t tell you whether or not she really meant those promises to change. If she did, she needed a psychiatrist.” Catherine paused. “Enough talk about Renée. Why didn’t you call me as soon as you finished at the morgue?”

  “I told you, when I got home I called the Moreau home.”

  “You could have called me first. A five-minute call to let me know it was over and you were all right emotionally would have put my mind at rest. Instead, I imagined all kinds of awful things.”

  James said a bit impatiently, “Catherine, I tried to call you right after I spoke to Renée’s mother, but I couldn’t get an answer on your cell or home phone. That’s why I came here. If I’d been sooner—”

  “You should have called me as soon as you got home from the morgue,” Catherine bridled. “If you had, I wouldn’t have been certain something had happened to you, I wouldn’t have been outside in the rain, and I wouldn’t have been a prime target for Arcos. Why didn’t you call?”

  James stood and walked slowly to the fireplace, propping his arm on the mantle. He gave her a long look. “Catherine, this afternoon two people called me and one client informed me of your noon-hour activity. If you want to sneak into the Nordine Gallery to see Mardi Gras Lady, you shouldn’t wear a red raincoat and carry a big red umbrella.”

  Catherine flushed. “Oh! So you didn’t call because you were mad at me.”

  “I wasn’t mad.”

  “Yes, you were. And for your information, I wasn’t sneaking.”

  “Were you going to tell me you’d been to the gallery?”

  “Of course.” James continued to stare at her until her gaze dropped. “I don’t know. I hope I would have even though you wouldn’t have been happy about it.”

  “I wouldn’t have been and you know why.”

  “Because Arcos had an affair with Renée.”

  “Because you were supposed to be careful, not parade into the Nordine Gallery in a red coat for all the world to see!”

  “I didn’t parade and I hardly think a couple of people in Aurora Falls constitutes all the world!” Catherine took a deep breath. “Okay, I wasn’t careful. I realize that now. I’m just not used to being careful around here. But what’s the re
st of the reason you got mad about me going to the gallery?”

  James looked away for a moment, almost childishly, as if he were going to refuse to talk. Then he started speaking fast and loud. “Because Arcos had the gall to paint her portrait and put it out for public consumption with his intriguing, totally unbelievable denials that the picture was of Renée. Then that slimy Ken Nordine, another one of her lovers, hung it in his art gallery! Made it the showpiece of the exhibition, for God’s sake! I didn’t want to go there and I didn’t want you to go there, either.”

  Catherine said nothing in her defense. She waited until James’s expression visibly calmed.

  “I have no right to dictate your actions, though. I’m not your master, your boss, your dictator. I never told you not to go because what Arcos and Nordine had done humiliated me; you should have told me to go to hell and that you’d do what you pleased.” He paused. “I know you’d never do that, though. Instead, you constantly tiptoe around my feelings. It makes me feel like you think I’m some emotionally unstable patient you might send over the edge, and yes, it annoys the hell out of me. I was embarrassed and irritated this afternoon because you’d gone to the gallery without telling me you were going and because I was certain you wouldn’t have told me you did go.” He sighed. “Why would you do that, Catherine?”

  “Because I don’t want to hurt you. Renée showed you no respect. Worse. I’ve tried very hard to do just the opposite.” To her surprise, tears rose in her eyes. “Maybe I’m just as bad for you as she was if I’m stirring up gossip and people are actually calling you at your office to report on me. I’m sorry.”

  James looked at her solemnly. Then the right side of his mouth twitched. Finally, he burst into loud laughter, bending slightly at the waist. Surprised, Lindsay, who’d been watching quietly from a corner, burst into a volley of barks before snatching up her stuffed tiger for protection.

  “What’s wrong?” Catherine shouted above the din, indignant at his laughter. “What’s so damned funny, James?”