Saint's Gate

by Carla Neggers

  Colin glanced at Yank, who directed his attention to Ainsley. “I just spoke to Lucas Sharpe. Claire Grayson had a son.”

  Ainsley looked blank. “A son? What difference does that make?”

  But Yank hadn’t finished. “Claire tried to give him away so she could become a nun and he wouldn’t be raised by his father. It wouldn’t have worked. She still couldn’t have entered the convent because she was married and the mother of a dependent child.” Yank’s voice was tight but steady. “The husband was a real bastard. The son takes after him. His name’s Gabriel. Gabriel Campbell Grayson.”

  Ainsley gasped and shrank back from Yank. Colin grabbed her arm. “Your boyfriend, Ainsley. Where is he?”

  She seemed confused, dazed. “Gabe?” She shivered as if she were cold. “He’s not here. He’s on a job. In York, I think. You can’t… He can’t…”

  Colin dropped her arm. She teetered, and Bracken stepped forward, steadying her with one hand. “She thinks she saw a priest,” he said, his dark blue eyes on Colin.

  His throat tightened. “Where?”

  Bracken pointed toward the oceanfront. “There.”

  Colin drew his weapon and turned to Yank. “Stay with Fin and Ainsley. Watch for bombs. Don’t go inside. Gabe will burn this place down.”

  “Go,” Yank said, drawing his own weapon.

  Colin ran down the lane. He had to get to Emma and Sister Cecilia in time. He didn’t even consider what would happen if he didn’t.

  40

  “NO ONE COMES HERE UNINVITED,” GABE SAID, holding his .40-caliber Glock steady. “It’s a surprise for Ainsley.”

  Emma worked at keeping him talking. When he was talking, he wasn’t cutting or shooting. She had placed the headband back on Sister Cecilia’s wounds, but the bleeding had eased. The novice had regained consciousness, although she was still clearly weak and in pain.

  “It’s a lovely house,” Emma said. “I’m sure Ainsley will be pleased.”

  “She will be.”

  Gabe stood by the painting his mother had done of the ill-fated Irish princess. He was wearing black jeans and a black suit coat with a Roman collar, now splattered with blood. His hands were smeared with more blood, but he maintained the same easygoing demeanor that he’d had when Emma had first met him.

  “Sister Cecilia will corroborate your story,” Emma said. “She’s so crazed with pain and fear, she’s not taking in anything you and I have said. She thinks Father Bracken attacked her. Let her go, Gabe. Just let her go. She’ll tell everyone a priest hurt her.”

  “She can’t walk.”

  “She’ll manage. Once she’s free, she’ll rally—”

  He shook his head. “She’ll see me.”

  “No, she won’t. We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “Don’t you care about your own fate, Emma?”

  “Of course, but I have a bargaining chip.” She paused, then added, “I can help you find the Rembrandt.”

  His eyes darkened and he licked his lips but didn’t respond.

  “I’ll help you,” Emma said, “but first you have to let Sister Cecilia go.”

  “I make the rules.”

  “That’s self-evident, Gabe. You have the gun.” Emma kept her tone casual and unafraid, but also nonthreatening. “You’re a brazen, clever thief, but you can’t steal the Rembrandt if you don’t know here it is.”

  “It’s not the Rembrandt. It’s my Rembrandt.” He didn’t raise his voice.

  “Your mother brought it here. To Maine.”

  “She loved it here. She was a genteel, beautiful woman. She wanted to be a nun. My father told me. He hated her for it. The sainted Mother Linden wouldn’t let her become one of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart.”

  “She couldn’t. It wasn’t up to Mother Linden. Your mother had a husband and a small child.”

  “That’s right, Emma. It’s good you’re not patronizing me. Did you know my mother tried to give me away?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “It was bound to come out now that you’re focused on her. My father told me. I don’t remember. I was just a baby.” He sounded almost wistful, but his expression hardened as he continued. “Isn’t that what you’d do? Tell your son his mother tried to give him away so that she could become a nun?”

  “Maybe not,” Emma said, “but if it’s the truth, it can give you insight into your mother. You can try to understand her strengths and frailties.”

  “She hated my father. She didn’t want me, but she didn’t want him to have me, either.”

  “I’ve seen her picture. She is beautiful, Gabe.”

  “Now you’re patronizing me, Agent Sharpe.”

  Sister Cecilia stirred but not enough for Gabe to notice. The swelling where he’d hit her on the back of the head had worsened but not alarmingly so. He hadn’t wanted to kill her, Emma realized. He’d wanted to torture her—for his own sense of power and amusement, and for information.

  Emma focused on the man in front of her. “Having The Garden Gallery must have made all the difference in your efforts to re-create this room. Your mother had no money to commission Jack d’Auberville to paint it. Did she trade something?”

  “If you’re thinking they had an affair—”

  “I’m not, no. My guess is she got him interested in Vikings. My brother left me a message as I arrived here. Her grandfather—your great-grandfather, Gordon Peck—came into some Viking pieces, probably from a hoard discovered in a farmer’s field in England in the 1890s.”

  Emma didn’t mention that the tenth-century treasure, which was in private hands, had a rocky history of thefts, illicit copies and fraud. Tracing previous owners wasn’t always possible, or wanted, by current or new owners.

  Gabe, who seemed tireless, was thoughtful. “There’s a Viking cup in Jack’s studio. Ainsley doesn’t think it’s real.”

  “It very likely could be. We have better methods now than we did forty years ago to authenticate—”

  “I know. Ainsley will be thrilled, but an authentic Viking cup is a lot for my mother to have paid for a Jack d’Auberville painting. If he’s another one who used her—well, I won’t let that stand.”

  “He’s been dead for thirty years, Gabe. He did a good job on the mechanics of her painting of Saint Sunniva, but the original has a spark that he could never capture.” Emma could smell roses and ocean salt on a the cool breeze, the French doors still open to the garden. “I mean that. Your mother had real talent.”

  “Her grace and spirit are there in her rendition of Saint Sunniva.” Gabe glanced at the painting next to him. “If she’d lived, she’d have become a famous artist herself. She was far more talented than Jack d’Auberville.”

  “She gave her Saint Sunniva painting to my grandfather shortly before the fire. She wanted him to have it. He’d been good to her, but I think she believed that she’d do many more paintings.”

  Gabe took a step toward her. “Did the sister move? If she tries to escape—”

  “Sister Cecilia is in rough shape. She’s not going anywhere until you want her to. You’ve been very busy, working up to this moment—re-creating your family home and art collection.”

  “I didn’t mean to kill anyone, you know, but if someone gets in my way—”

  “You meant to kill Sister Joan.”

  His grip on the gun didn’t waver, but his look was cool, his anger under control. “It’s Ainsley’s fault. She shouldn’t have taken The Garden Gallery to Sister Joan. I could have cleaned it myself. I know how.”

  “Your mother brought several valuable works of art to Maine. You were piecing together everything her family—your family—had owned, as well as what they hadn’t sold off and she had here. You had a feeling those last pieces of the Peck collection didn’t burn in the fire.” Emma shifted her position, careful not to disturb Sister Cecilia. “The Garden Gallery helped you pinpoint exactly what she’d brought East with her. Did you already know about the Rembrandt?”

 
; Gabe ignored her and, with his free hand, fingered the frame of his mother’s painting of Saint Sunniva. “She’s beautiful. She’s sleeping.”

  “Her body is incorrupt, Gabe. Check out the bones next to her. Those are the remains of her companions. The painting tells a jumbled story. The Viking warship on the horizon arrived to deal with the Christian intruders. King Olaf didn’t show up to investigate the light from the cave for another forty years, and he was Christian himself.”

  “You’re trying to get me to believe that my mother was deranged.”

  “I’m not trying to get you to believe anything. She was depressed after the deaths of her parents and her family’s financial collapse. She was in an unhappy marriage. She had a small child.” Emma debated a moment, then added, “She found solace taking painting lessons from Mother Linden and learning about convent life. Imagining what it’d be like.”

  He stepped away from the painting. “She didn’t commit suicide, and my father, for all his faults, didn’t kill her. Her death was what the police said it was. An accident.”

  “Who’re you trying to convince, Gabe?”

  “My mother gave away and sold the last of her family’s art collection because she didn’t want my father to have it, whether she was alive or dead. I don’t blame her.” He turned away from the painting of Saint Sunniva. “You’ve discovered my passion, Emma. I have quietly begun to re-create my family’s art collection—valuable artwork as well as Sunniva here, what you would describe as junk.”

  “I would never describe your mother’s work as junk.”

  “My mother’s life was destroyed by the greed and corruption of the man she married.”

  And in destroying her life, Gabe believed his father had destroyed his son’s life. “You haven’t limited yourself to stealing works that your family owned,” Emma said. “You saw you were pretty good at stealing. No one would suspect you, the happy housepainter.”

  He didn’t respond at first, but she could tell he was losing interest in talking. Finally he waved his Glock at her. “All right. Where’s the Rembrandt?”

  Emma looked at the d’Auberville painting. In the lower left corner was a painting reminiscent, as she and Lucas had suspected, of Rembrandt’s Saint Matthew and the Angel. Sister Joan would have recognized it right away. Had Jack d’Auberville? Had he even considered it might be authentic? Would anyone ever know what had been on his mind when he’d painted the garden gallery of beautiful, eccentric Claire Grayson?

  “Your mother gave away the Rembrandt before she died,” Emma said, deliberately baiting Gabe.

  “For safekeeping.” Gabe’s voice was steady, his righteousness absolute. “She intended for me to have it. I’m her son.” He smiled. “And I will have it, Emma. You’ll tell me what you know.”

  She saw that he wanted to kill again. He loved the life of the lone killer and thief. He didn’t want to stop. She hardened her tone. “You know Colin Donovan won’t stop hunting you if you let Sister Cecilia die and hurt me. You’ll have him on your tail forever. Father Bracken, too. He’s wealthy, and he didn’t take well to Sister Joan’s death.”

  “Nice try. I’m not worried. I can pull this off.”

  “What about your fiancée?”

  “I love Ainsley. Truly.” He sounded almost wistful. “I want a life with her, here, in this house. I’m her personal Viking, remember?”

  “When are you going to tell her your real name?”

  “Soon. It’s not that big a secret.” He moved toward her and Sister Cecilia. “You do know where my Rembrandt is, don’t you, Emma?”

  She saw now that he wanted to torture her for its whereabouts. And he would, even if she told him what he wanted to know.

  He’d torture her for fun.

  “The early martyred saints endured unimaginable suffering,” he said, giving the painter’s tray a little kick, rattling his bloody instruments of torture against the metal. “My mother loved all the gruesome stories. My father told me. It was another of his ways to diminish her in my eyes.”

  Sister Cecilia pressed her foot against Emma’s lower leg, as if to let her know that she was conscious and alert.

  Gabe scooped up a razor blade and laughed. “Imagine my mother’s terror and suffering when the fire broke out. It started here, in this room. Did you know that?”

  “It was a different house, Gabe. It was forty years ago.”

  “My father says her body was discovered with a high blood-alcohol level. Another lie. I checked.”

  “You’re right,” Emma said. “I don’t know why your father told you that. Maybe he didn’t want you to think she’d suffered.”

  “He said she made sure she wouldn’t get out of here. She drank herself into a stupor and collapsed. You don’t believe that, do you, Emma?”

  “Actually, no, I don’t,” she said truthfully.

  “My father squandered what he inherited from her and his own family. Then he died when I was fifteen. I had nothing.”

  “You’ve done extremely well for yourself as a painter. You didn’t have to take up killing and stealing.” Emma better positioned herself so that she and Sister Cecilia, or Sister Cecilia on her own, if she were able, could run for the French doors. “Why the priest outfit, Gabe?”

  “If necessary, Father Bracken will burn down this house.”

  “Ah. After you get all the artwork into your van, of course.”

  Gabe smiled. “Of course. I’ll start over. No one will ever know it was me. I’m the simple painter who pulled himself up by his own bootstraps. Father Bracken’s the new priest who had improper dealings with another man’s fiancée and tried to get his hands on her jilted lover’s valuable art collection. He’ll die in the process—a victim of his own lust and greed.”

  “Colin’s an FBI agent, Gabe. He won’t be easy to fool or to kill.”

  “Maybe so, Emma, but you? Not so tough.”

  Gabe held up the razor blade to the light streaming through the French doors. His plan was straightforward if not simple, she thought. Get the whereabouts of the Rembrandt from her, then kill her and Sister Cecilia and blame Finian Bracken.

  Then kill Father Bracken and suggest Colin snapped and killed his priest friend in fury.

  And finally Gabe would kill Colin in self-defense.

  Emma suspected the painter’s plan involved a couple of bombs, as well as medieval torture.

  Her plan was to make sure he didn’t succeed.

  Without any warning, Sister Cecilia burst to her feet and ran madly toward the French doors. Emma reacted instantly, leaping up and lunging for Gabe before he could shoot the fleeing woman. She went for his gun, chopping his wrist with the edge of one hand.

  Colin was there. “Drop the weapon. Do it now.”

  Gabe ignored him and Emma hit him in the throat, but Colin was already firing.

  Her would-be killer slumped to the floor.

  Colin grabbed the Glock and checked for a pulse. Emma headed for the doors. “I have to get to Sister Cecilia.”

  “Let’s go.”

  They raced through the roses and hydrangeas onto the path to the front of the house. There was no sign of Sister Cecilia. She could be making her way back to the lane, or flailing in the woods.

  Colin touched Emma’s arm. “There.”

  She saw now, too. Sister Cecilia had bolted straight to the water. In her blind terror, she’d plunged into the tide.

  They charged down a narrow path through marsh grasses. A wave overtook Sister Cecilia, her blood mixing with the seawater as she went under.

  Emma ran into the cold water, Colin right with her, and together they got Sister Cecilia onto the rocks and sand. She was shivering and deathly pale. “Hold on, Sister,” Emma whispered, then looked up at Colin. “Paramedics?”

  “Cavalry’s on the way.”

  Drenched and freezing, she nonetheless welcomed the cool breeze as she smiled. “Good job, Agent Donovan.”

  Colin sat back into the sand. Somehow, he’d managed onl
y to get wet up to his hips. “Good job yourself, Agent Sharpe.” He grinned at her. “You kicked that son of a bitch’s ass.”

  41

  IT WAS ALMOST DARK WHEN COLIN SAT ON A wooden bench on the rocks above the protected cove by the convent of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. Emma and the sisters—her friends—had located another Claire Grayson painting, a happier one of Sunniva as a princess in Ireland, before she ended up dead in a cave. Claire had presented it to Mother Linden as a thank-you gift.

  On the back was a scrawled note that made sense now, in hindsight.

  To the Sisters of the Joyful Heart,

  I give you this painting freely, not for what I’ve done but for what a true master did before my modest and hasty effort.

  With love,

  Claire Peck Grayson, a sister in spirit

  Claire had figured out that she had an authentic Rembrandt on her hands and hid it behind one of her own paintings. It would be safe, and it wouldn’t go to her husband. She’d wanted the sisters to have it. They would know what to do with it.

  One hell of a thank-you gift, Colin thought, even if it had taken forty years to discover.

  Mother Superior Natalie Aquinas Williams had opened up the private meditation garden for Emma and any investigators who wanted to take a moment there.

  Colin imagined Emma here in her early twenties. “I’ll bet you loved watching lobstermen.”

  She laughed behind him. “Don’t forget rugged marine patrol officers.”

  “Not yachtsmen?”

  She stood to his right now, on the very edge of the ledge. “Yachtsmen seemed more out of reach than your basic Rock Point hard-ass.”

  She looked like a Heron’s Cove hard-ass right now in her leather jacket, jeans and boots, with her honey-colored hair pulled back, her jaw set and her green eyes narrowed as she focused on her job. Colin knew the events of the day had taken an emotional toll. They had on him, too, although he wouldn’t necessarily articulate it with words. Then again, Emma might not, either.