“All the jobs you’ve had, all the auditions, and you don’t remember any of your lines?”
“Auditions…I memorized a Shakespeare scene once.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I…I’m not sure I remember.”
He cupped her chin. “Try.”
She stood up, still cradling the dog. He stood also, to be sure she didn’t make a run for it.
“I learned this a long time ago.” She seemed self-conscious, almost shy. “It’s from Othello.”
The name meant nothing to Swann, but he nodded anyway.
She took a step back, head lowered, lit by a fall of light from the high stained glass windows. For a long moment she was silent. If she were being obstinate again, he would have to get rough with her.
He was relieved when she lifted her head and began to speak.
“My love doth so approve him that even his stubbornness, his checks, his frowns—prithee, unpin me—have grace and favor in them.”
She was playing pantomime with an unseen secondary character. From the way she asked to be unpinned, Swann guessed it was a housemaid.
“Good faith, how foolish are our minds! Lay those sheets I bade you on the bed.”
Definitely a maid.
“If I do die before thee, prithee, shroud me in one of those same sheets.”
Swann had heard of Shakespeare, but had no exposure to the stuff. If this was what it was like, he hadn’t missed much. The words were hard to follow, and the whole thing seemed stupid and fruity.
Now she was saying her mother once had a maid of her own, named Barbara, and this Barbara had been in love with some guy who’d jilted her.
“She had a song of willow; an old thing ’twas, but it expressed her fortune, and she died singing it…”
He wondered how long this would last. He should have had her recite something better.
Then, to his surprise, Chelsea Brewer began to sing.
Her voice was low and sad, crooning tenderly, while her hands went on stroking the poodle, and her gaze was far away.
The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow;
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow…
The high, sweet song held Swann fascinated.
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans;
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones;
Sing willow, willow, willow…
He listened and thought of a creek he’d visited as a boy, a muddy rill reflecting the bleak Missouri sky. He’d liked the aloneness of the place. He would sit and skip stones over the water and watch hawks circle the sun. Sometimes he sat all day, pondering the enigma of his future, imagining great things.
There had not been great things. He grew up on a hardscrabble farm and dropped out of school after ninth grade, having recognized his teachers as fools. Then he wandered, tall for his age, able to pass for eighteen. By twenty-one he had brawled and fucked his way across the continent. He worked construction and oil drilling, spent his wages buying women, got into fights with day laborers who mistook his scrawny build for weakness. He learned how to cap a well, lay a foundation, and kill a man. In an alley in San Antonio he drove a bottleneck into a campesino’s throat. He left town in a hurry, afraid the police would be after him. He had to grow up a little more before he understood that some lives were cheaper than others, and a Mexican’s life was cheapest of all. No one was looking for him.
His first taste of killing left him hungry for more. It became his livelihood. He was good at it, but rarely did he prosper. When he made money, he wasted it on whores and horse races and cards. Much of his life was spent on the run, sneaking furtively from one hidey-hole to another, always watching his back.
Over the years he learned many things. He knew how to beat a man to death and how to keep him alive long after he wanted to die. He knew how to take a woman from the front, from the rear, and upside down, and how to bring her equal parts of pleasure and pain. He knew Aussie beers were better than American, and German beers were better than both, and Corona tasted like piss.
Above all, he knew how to survive. In the end, he lost his money and his few friends, but he held on to his life and his pride. He told himself he had done as well as he could have hoped.
But hearing the song, remembering the creek, he wondered.
Sing all a green willow must be my garland.
Let nobody blame him; his scorn I approve…
The song trailed away. Swann listened to its fading echo play among the high rafters of the nave. Then there was silence.
“That was beautiful,” he said quietly.
She gave him a strange look, then glanced away.
“You should sing all the time. You should do…I don’t know…musicals.”
“I’m not that good.”
“You’re better than you know. Best I’ve ever heard.”
She didn’t answer. Haloed in the rainbow-colored lights, she could have been a plaster saint, a marble angel.
“Sing me something else.”
“I’m really not a singer.”
“Sure you are.”
“I don’t want to sing for you!”
She stood facing him, defiance in her posture.
“All right.” Swann clapped his hands. “Fine.” He grabbed her by the arm, startling a gasp out of her. The dog, spooked by his closeness, jumped free and growled up at him from the floor.
Roughly, he escorted her to the confessional box. It would hold her. He had purchased a padlock and chain for the door. The walls were solid, and even the lattice was sturdy enough to resist attempts at sabotage.
“Inside.”
She hesitated. “Why?”
There were all sorts of practical reasons. He had equipment to set up, preparations to make, and he couldn’t watch her every minute. But he owed her no explanations. He owed her nothing if she wouldn’t sing for him.
“Just get the fuck in,” he said.
She obeyed. Before Swann shut the door, the poodle faithfully followed its mistress inside.
KATE was quiet during the drive back to Hollywood. She thought about Swann. About Chelsea. She tried not to be afraid.
As Sam pulled up to the curb, Kate turned to him. “I’m guessing you and Bob and Swann worked together. Am I right?”
“What makes you say that?”
“It’s obvious you knew him. Come on, we don’t have time for any bullshit.”
“Yeah, okay. We were a team. The three of us—and a fourth guy, Giovanni.”
“This was before or after Colorado Springs?”
“Before.”
“How long did you work as a group?”
“Two years. We pulled off a bunch of jobs. Never got busted, either. Made our share of money. Almost as much as we could spend.”
“If you were so successful, why’d you split up?”
“You saw Bob, right? What Swann did to him? Giovanni and me weren’t sticking around after that.”
“So you ran off to Colorado. And Swann found you there. Chelsea said you would kick her out of the trailer on nights when Swann showed up.”
“I was trying to protect her. I didn’t want him to get a look at her.”
“She got a look. She was terrified of him. Still is. Now she’s his prisoner. And it’s your fault. You brought him into her life.”
“It’s not like I planned it that way.”
“No, you never plan anything, do you? Bad things just happen. It’s never your intention. Just bad luck.”
“I don’t need you preaching to me. Save it for those skid row rejects you hire.”
“Those men have some excuse for messing up their lives. What’s yours? On second thought, don’t answer that. I know you have a million excuses.”
She got out of the car, resisting the urge to slam the door. “I’m going over to see Vic
toria. I assume you’ll be headed there, too.”
“Right behind you. And, Kate, better prepare yourself. She won’t take it well.”
——
“Is this a joke?”
Victoria Brewer, in nightgown and robe, stood in her well-lit living room between the two Eames chairs, her body canted at an unnatural angle, her face lit up with a ghastly smile. It was the reflexive smile of a proper hostess and it had remained stuck to her face, masklike, while Kate told her the news.
Kate had anticipated many possible reactions, but not this one. She glanced at Sam, waiting in the doorway, and saw his cynical, knowing look.
“Excuse me?” Kate asked.
“It’s not very amusing. I suppose this is your infantile way of paying us back for not listening to you before. And I suppose my fun-loving husband is playing along.”
“Mrs. Brewer, this is no joke.”
“Of course it is. Chelsea hasn’t been kidnapped. That’s insane.”
“It’s happened.”
“How could it? Grange was there to protect her. That’s his job.”
“Grange was injured. He’s at the hospital.”
“Absurd.” She looked past Kate and Sam, toward the driveway where their vehicles were parked. “Is Chelsea in your car? Is she out there waiting?”
“Mrs. Brewer—”
Without listening, Victoria stalked out the door, down the steps to the driveway, and began circling the Jaguar, rapping on the windows.
From the foyer, Kate watched her. “She can’t possibly believe we’re lying to her.”
“You don’t get it. This is how she deals.”
“By not dealing?”
“Queen of denial. Didn’t you figure that out by now?”
Now Victoria was examining Sam’s SUV, stridently calling her daughter’s name.
“I guess I did,” she said. “But I didn’t realize you saw it that way.”
“I’ve been with her for twenty-two years, on and off.”
“So when we had our meeting earlier—you knew she was in denial about Chelsea’s personal life?”
“Sure.”
“But you sided with her, not with me.”
He shrugged. “She’s the one who signs the checks.”
Victoria stormed back in, face flushed. “All right, where is she?”
Kate remained silent, aware that Victoria already knew the truth. It was only a question of waiting until she admitted it to herself.
As Kate watched, Victoria’s mouth slowly worked itself into a new smile. “You’re not scaring me. This is some sort of insane prank and you’re both in on it.” She turned from one to the other, her eyes glittering, feral. “Both of you!”
“Vicki…” Sam said, and in the word there was an uncharacteristic tenderness—and a warning.
His tone of voice broke her. The smile stayed fixed on her face while tears abruptly tracked down her cheeks.
“You mean it’s true? She’s really…? He has her—this man from your past? He has my little girl?”
“I’m sorry,” Kate said.
“Oh, God…”
She sagged and Sam caught her. She buried her face in his chest, her shoulders jerking.
“Bring her into the living room,” Kate said.
Sam escorted her to the sofa and eased her onto the cushions. “It hurts,” Victoria said in a childish whine. “It hurts.”
“I know, honey.” Sam patted her.
“We’ll get her back, Mrs. Brewer.”
“Get her back?” Victoria’s head lifted. “You’re the one who lost her. You let this happen. You were more worried about my daughter’s sex life than about her safety.”
Kate stood there and took it.
“I’ll see you ruined for this.” Her head twisted on the stalk of her neck, her eyes seeking Sam. “You were right about her. I never should have trusted her, never…”
“I understand how you feel,” Kate began, testing each word to see if it could bear the weight of what she had to say, “but right now we all have to work together. The sooner we come to terms with the situation, the sooner we can bring your daughter home.”
“You won’t bring her home. You’ll get her killed, if she hasn’t been killed already.” Victoria pushed herself off the sofa, fists clenching and unclenching. “I want you out of here. Out of my house.”
“I can’t do that, Mrs. Brewer.”
“Get the hell out!”
“Swann is going to call me again to arrange the details. I’m part of this. I have to be.”
“Where are the police?”
“They don’t know anything about the abduction.”
“Don’t know? What do you mean they don’t know?”
“Swann made it clear that if anyone outside the family is brought in, Chelsea’s safety will be compromised.”
“So he’s calling the shots now?”
“Yes, I’m afraid he is.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“He said if we notify the police, the FBI, or the media, Chelsea would…suffer.”
Victoria seized on the words. “The FBI. They’re experts in this kind of thing. We have to call the FBI.”
She reached for the phone. Kate put a hand on her arm. “Did you hear what I said, Mrs. Brewer?”
“If you think I’m going to let you take charge of this situation after what’s already happened—”
“Kate’s right,” Sam said.
Victoria glanced at him, perplexed. “What?”
“If Swann says to keep law enforcement out of it,” Sam said, “we’d better play it his way.”
“Ridiculous. I’m calling.”
Kate held fast to her arm. “Only if you want your daughter to die.”
“You’re the ones who’re killing her. I’m the only one who gives a damn.”
“Swann told me—” Kate began.
“I know what he told you. But they always say that, don’t they? It’s a bluff. It has to be a bluff.”
“Swann doesn’t bluff,” Sam said.
Victoria ignored him. “He can’t possibly know who we call. He’s not watching our every move.”
“He said he has eyes on the house,” Kate told her.
“He’s lying.” Victoria’s voice rose in a hysterical tremolo. “He’s a criminal. Criminals lie.”
Sam shook his head. “Swann doesn’t lie about shit like this.”
“Why? Does your friend have a conscience? Is he too honorable to lie?”
“Hell no. But he doesn’t make threats he can’t cash in. He’s got us in his sights, for sure.”
“That’s nothing but a gut feeling.”
“My gut’s not usually too far wrong where Swann’s concerned.”
“Then…you want us to leave Chelsea’s fate in her hands?” Victoria pointed an accusing finger at Kate.
“I don’t see as how there’s a whole lot of choice.” Sam intoned the words like a judge pronouncing sentence.
Victoria glanced from one to the other. “I still think…the authorities…” Her voice trailed away.
“It’s the wrong move, Mrs. Brewer,” Kate said softly, “and Chelsea can’t afford any wrong moves tonight.”
There was silence, broken by the piping tune of her cell phone’s ringtone.
It was two a.m., and Swann was calling.
KATE wished she’d had more time. Alan still wasn’t here, which meant they couldn’t try to trace the call. And she hadn’t thought the conversation through, wasn’t sure what to say.
But the phone was ringing, and she had to answer.
She flipped it open and checked the caller ID. The screen displayed an obviously artificial string of numbers: 000-012-3456.
The phone kept ringing.
“What’s the matter with you?” Victoria demanded. “Answer it.”
Sam touched her arm, showing a slow smile. “She knows what she’s doing.”
Kate made Swann wait another few seconds. A petty power play,
but it was all she had. On the seventh ring she took the call. “Swann?”
“Call me Jack, Sister Kate. Go on. It won’t kill you.”
“Hello…Jack.”
“Not so painful, was it? I imagine Sam’s told you a lot about me.”
“He’s given me some background.”
“Only good things, I hope.” Swann’s voice fluttered momentarily. Kate prayed this wouldn’t be a dropped call.
“I need to hear from Chelsea,” she said, “before this goes any further.”
“She’s fine. Like I told you before, I kidnapped her to save her.”
“Explain that.”
“There was a plot against her life. You should know about that by now, if you followed up on my tip.”
“Yes, I know. But why’d you call my office anonymously? You could have told me directly.”
“And you would have assumed I was wasting your time with a phony lead, making you chase your own tail.”
“Well…probably. But I still don’t understand what the hell’s going on.”
“I was hired to kill your client. Half the cash up front and half upon completion. I agreed to the deal. But I never intended to go through with it. I’ve done a lot of killing, but I’m not into killing young girls who’ve never done me any harm.”
“Then why didn’t you just say no?”
“Because my employer would have hired someone else. I’m not the only one who can handle this kind of job.”
“You could have gone to the police.”
He chuckled, a sour sound. “I’m not a going-to-the-police type of guy. And I couldn’t have proved anything, anyway. I needed to expose the plot, and the only way to do it was to have my employer place his bet. In the meantime, I needed to get Chelsea out of danger in case he had a backup plan.”
“Is that why he hired you—just to make money on a wager?”
“No, he has other reasons. Better reasons. The bet was just a fringe benefit. He doesn’t even know I know about it.”
“How did you find out?”
“A little bird told me. Have you identified the guy yet?”
“Working on it.”
“Well, until he’s out of action, I’m holding on to Chelsea—for her own protection. She’ll be safer with me than anywhere else.” The volume on his end fluctuated again, but she still hadn’t lost the connection.
Grave of Angels Page 10
