Under the Lights
Page 23
Molly’s eyebrows rise. “It’s beautiful.”
“It was a gift. From Freddie.”
She nods. “It’s going to be a different experience having money.”
I stand and take her hand.
“Let’s go,” I say, leading her from the room.
Together we walk up the passage, through the maze of boxes and discarded scenery, through the wings, and onto the stage. The dancers, who, for all these years have been our strange family wait to embrace us both. Tears spill over as I hug Rosa then Evie.
“It’s your happily ever after, yes?” She smiles through her misty eyes.
I nod back. “If only there was one for you.”
But she shakes her head. “You’re the star. In the end, you’re the one to ride off in the carriage with the handsome prince.”
I choke back another surge of emotions and try to smile.
“Take care of you,” I say. “Thanks for the suitcase.”
“Armand has ten of those cases.” She kisses my cheek, and with a brief hug, Molly and I continue to the front of the stage and then down the short flight of stairs and into the house.
We walk up the aisle to the bright lobby where Freddie waits in a pale gray overcoat. A stocky man wearing a wrinkled suit stands near him. I don’t recognize him, and he regards me with curiosity. I look away, at Freddie’s smiling face.
He steps forward to take my hand. “I trust you had a relaxing evening?”
I answer quickly. “I couldn’t stop thinking of you and our exciting trip.”
He kisses my cheek. “Roland gave me these.” He holds up navy blue booklets with PASSPORT stamped on them in gold. “He said they were in the safe.”
My jaw drops, but Gavin joins us in the lobby. “Best of luck in your new life.”
Rage simmers just below the surface of my skin, but I hide it for Freddie’s sake. “I’ll never forget how you took me in and gave me my start.”
He bows slightly, then turns to the small man watching us. I hope never to see his face again, and I can’t help wondering what will happen when he learns of the body in the salon under the theater.
“We’re almost finished here, Detective Landry.”
“I’m supposed to question everyone who was in the theater the night of the disappearance,” the strange man growls. “Otherwise—”
“I can assure you, Lara and Molly know nothing of your business.”
My pulse beats faster as I wonder what the stocky detective is investigating, but Freddie is back, taking my arm.
“As soon as you’re ready, dear.” He carries my suitcase out to the waiting Towncar.
I follow him quickly, anxious to get out of here.
Molly is right beside me, and despite her hollow eyes, her pale skin is bright. Her smooth curls glow with auburn highlights in the sun.
“A limo,” she muses. “You’re wearing diamonds. All we need is a little dog.”
I give her a tight smile and take her hand.
Freddie touches my lower back. “Ready?”
“Oh—wait.” I leave them and jog to where Roland stands near the back doors of the house.
He’s watching from afar, and I know, like me, his tears are waiting to be shed in solitude.
“You did it,” I say.
“I told you I would.”
Our eyes hold each other’s for the last time. I blink back the tears. “I have a phone. You promise to keep in touch?”
“I’ll be waiting for your first text.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“It was always my pleasure.”
I step forward into his embrace and hold him a few heartbeats longer before letting him go and walking slowly to the waiting car.
“Now,” I say, and Freddie helps me inside.
My eyes drink in the buttery leather interior of the small limo taking us to the New Orleans International Airport. My stomach is fluttery to be leaving here, not knowing what awaits us in a new country where we don’t speak the language and our only friend is this man who thinks we’re something we’re not.
The car rumbles quietly forward, and Molly spins in her seat to look out the back window. My eyes are fixed on the man sitting in front of me as the soft strains of classic jazz surround us.
Freddie reaches for my hand. “It won’t hurt my feelings if you shed a few tears. I know it’s hard to say goodbye to the people you know and love.”
“You’re always so kind to me.”
“Only because I adore you.” Freddie gives my hand a squeeze. “And I really do think you’re going to adore Paris as well. Perhaps I can make you happy there the way you’ve made me happy here.”
“Perhaps.”
“Annemarie’s already planning to take you shopping,” he continues. “Make a list of everything you want to do and see.”
Molly finally turns around, and for the first time in two days, she slips her small hand into mine. Her head is on my shoulder, and she speaks quietly.
“Lara loves diamonds. And she wants a little dog.”
Freddie laughs. “I can’t wait to get to know you better,” he says, tapping the end of her nose lightly.
His gesture fills me with an emotion I’ve almost forgotten.
Hope.
The car hastens our departure, and I look down at the small hand holding mine. She’s safe now, and perhaps one day we’ll learn to forget the things that happened here. Maybe one day we’ll learn to never think about this place, ever again.
There’s no reason for ghosts to follow us across the Atlantic.
Epilogue
Mark
It’s black as pitch when my eyes open again.
Time has passed, but I don’t know how much. My entire body is wracked with intense pain, and the coppery flavor of blood is in my mouth.
I try to move, but my wrists are tied to my ankles. I try to roll, but my shoulder collides with hard wood. I’m in some kind of box or a crate. Getting still, I listen.
The rhythmic noise of clattering wheels on metal rails is unmistakable. I rock side to side, and I realize I’m tied up in the dark in a box on a train.
I didn’t save Lara.
She’s still back there.
She’s still in danger.
I can’t let myself think about how those men might have hurt her. I’ve got to get out of here and get back to her.
This isn’t the end of my story…
The story continues in UNDER THE STARS, coming Jan. 22…
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(NOTE: A slightly different version of “Sundown” previously appeared in THE VAULT anthology.)
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Under the Lights (#1), Jan. 8, 2018
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“Sundown” (a Bright Lights novella)
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When We Touch, 2017
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“Sundown”
Exclusive Sneak Peek
“I was quiet, but I was not blind.” –Jane Austen
Mark
This time it’s different.
I’ve made the annual journey from British Columbia to Juneau and back on the White Pass-Yukon Route for as long as I’ve been a detective. It’s a treacherous route in the winter, one with no direct connection to any other railway.
Tourists will ride it in the summer to see the glaciers, gorges, waterfalls, and steep grades. Now, only a very few individuals with proven business in the remote stops are allowed to travel this line.
Perhaps that’s why I do it each year at this time, for the adventure.
Perhaps it’s nostalgia, missing the dusty clutch of regulars riding these rails for their line of work.
I’d say I’m doing due diligence, keeping tabs on the outer reaches of my territory. This part of the country is so remote and isolated, anyone could get away with anything, and it would take months if not years for the authorities to notice. If it were even reported.
The truth is I’m here for a very specific reason.
I’m here waiting for him to slip up, to give me the reason I need to nail him.
“Confidence.” The slender man’s pronouncement breaks through my musings.
He leans forward on the bar, grasping his chunky shot glass in three fingers. Emerald-green absinthe swirls around inside the cup.
“Confidence is the key to everything,” he slurs. “The best criminals know this.”
Dropping back onto his stool, he slides two fingers along the corners of his thin mustache, pushing down his shifty grin. Aleister is a hustler, and he seems to be feeling the effects of his liquor.
Or it could be a lie… a grift. He could be stone cold sober and trying to get my guard down. He knows I’m searching. He wants to know why, what for.
His brown tweed three-piece suit has the finishing details only a tailor would know, tabs on the lapels, specialty labels. It’s old, but it’s expensive.
“Is that so?” I take a small hit of my scotch, poker face in place.
Unlike this fellow, my suit is off the rack, and I wear a beard, although I do keep it neatly trimmed. He’s a relic from another way of life. I’m the younger generation he feels compelled to educate.
“Yes,” he continues, “no matter what happens, the authorities will walk right past a perpetrator if he acts like he’s supposed to be there. No one questions him.”
I smile at that. “You don’t have much respect for my profession.”
The dining car sways, and I clutch my tumbler to keep it from sliding across the glossy wooden bar. Everything about this line is vintage. It’s filled with highly polished antiques, and the smell of cigar smoke, wax, and days gone by.
“Au contraire!” Aleister places a palm flat against his vest. “I have great respect for law enforcement. I am merely a lifelong student of human behavior.”
“I see.” I take another sip. The alcohol warms my chest on this frigid night. “You’re a profiler. I’m afraid your line of work has fallen out of fashion, my friend.”
“Pah! I’m a profiler of the profilers,” Aleister argues. “Profilers make judgments. I merely watch for patterns. Men see what they’re looking for, and they’re looking for suspicious behavior, fear, defensiveness. The most cunning serial killers—the Unabomber, the Boston strangler, Jeffrey Dahmer—they all walk around in plain sight because they’re confident. They’re calm.”
My lips tense, and I’m ready to argue when the double doors slide apart, and my insides go completely still.
A woman enters the dining car.
I don’t believe my eyes.
It’s her.
She’s more beautiful than ever. Her long, brown hair is perfectly straight, and her skin is as gold as the California sand. I meet her bright blue eyes, a spark flickers, and it’s gone.
Still, she recognized me. My stomach is tight, and I can only imagine she feels the same. It’s the first time we’ve seen each other in five years.
She continues, poker face in place, and behind her is the girl. Stike that, behind her is the young woman. She’s grown and changed, and while I know she’s eighteen, she seems more mature. Her hair is now bleached pale blonde, but her skin is still peachy. Her body is much curvier, and she moves like she’s become accustomed to attracting the male gaze.
They’re both stylishly dressed for dinner. Lara wears tight black pants and a flowing burgundy blouse that reveals her slim neck and elegant collarbones. She still has the body of a dancer, long and willowy, and her skin is as smooth as I remember her voice. My fingers curl at the memory.
Molly is in a short skirt and thick sweater. She’s completely new to me—almost like a different person.
I watch Aleister studying her ass as they go to a table near the window, and I can’t help thinking she’s the wild card in this game of cat and mouse.
Outside, winter white blurs our view of the scenery. It’s all mountains and treacherous canyons, but as they sit, Lara turns to us.
“Our route is appropriately named.” She smiles, and her voice is smoky silk and longing. “White as far as the eye can see.”
My drinking companion is quick to answer. “The White Pass is one of only two train lines running from Alaska into Canada.” He doesn’t try to hide his interest, and his eyes burn with lust. No doubt he’s hoping to find a bunkmate with whom to pass this cold winter night. “You’re from Montreal?”
“I’m American,” she answers, turning her gaze to the menu on the table.
It’s the universal sign she’s finished with us, but Aleister isn’t done. “You’re traveling to Whitehorse?”
The faintest hint of annoyance is in her blue eyes. It disappears when they meet mine. She smiles at me, and I fight the heat flooding my stomach, the tightness across my fly.
I’m not that easy.
It’s been too long. I have too many questions.
“Just passing through,” she says.
The girl across from her lifts a golden locket hanging from a long chain around her neck. It’s chunky and stylish, not delicate, and the gold is dirty, like an heirloom.
When she speaks, her voice is soft and high, deceptively innocent. “It’s almost eight, but it’s still so bright outside.”
“I wouldn’t be so anxious to see the sun disappear,” Aleister says. “At sundown, the weather turns brutal. It’s a deadly night to be out in the wilds.”
“Scaring the women, Fragonard? Hoping to lure one to your bed?” A loud authoritative voice breaks the hypnotic spell of the swirling snow, and Baron Robert Esterhaus pushes through the double doors with his valet Jeffrey following close behind. “Good evening, Fitz,” he says to me. “I trust you’re keeping this swindler on his toes.”
“I am no swindler,” Aleister growls, red rising around his collar. “The Yukon Territory is renowned for its dangers—”
“Keep your shirt on, I’m only yanking your chain.” The older man takes a seat across from the two women and winks back at me. “Still, I left my wallet in my safe.”
Aleister emits an insulted noise, and I break the tension. “I heard we might be in for some wea
ther tonight.”
“Yes, forecasters predict a blizzard, but these engineers know how to navigate it,” Esterhaus says to the room.
Lara turns to the baron, and I’m not sure how she would know him. I remember him, of course. I’ve been following him these many years watching and waiting.
So far, he’s walked a straight line.
“I haven’t heard the weather report. Should we be concerned?” Lara asks.
“As long as this beast stays on the tracks, we aren’t in any danger, despite what this Frenchman might tell you.”
Aleister shifts in his chair, growing angrier by the syllable. Ustinov, our perky Russian porter, cuts off any further interaction as he enters the car.
“Limited choices on the dinner menu tonight, I’m afraid.” He tugs on his starched white jacket and smiles. “We have Duck l’Orange or roast duck.”
I’m turning back to the bar when I hear Molly whisper, “I don’t care for duck.”
“What comes on the side?” Lara asks.
“Ah, yes…” A wink is in Ustinov’s tone. “We have a lovely roasted corn salad with avocado, or a risotto with exotic mushrooms and spinach.”
“Avocado this far north?” Robert exclaims, his hearty voice loud in the small car.
“We received a special shipment from the California coast when we embarked at Juneau.”
“We’ll each have the roast duck with the risotto, please,” Lara says.
The baron selects the l’Orange and corn salad, as do Aleister and I. Ustinov’s mood seems to have assuaged my friend’s irritation at our brash companion.
“Forgive me, I failed to introduce myself.” Esterhaus turns to the women. “I’m Robert Esterhaus, and this is my valet Jeffrey. At the bar there are Detective Mark Fitzhugh, or Fitz as I call him, and Aleister Fragonard, The Grifter of Montreal.”