“But where do Whalen and Francis connect?” Michael demanded.
“Rebecca has already told me that the black and white photo of she and Molly matches one of Franny’s paintings. That raises the possibility that Whalen and Francis might have had access to the same photograph.”
“Not at the same time,” I said.
“We don’t know that,” Harris said. “Not yet.”
I told him that it’s not unusual for an autistic savant to be able to tap into portions of the brain that normal people can’t even hope for. Franny’s talent might very well include the ability to see inside my head. Or at the very least, to be able to see the future.
“Okay,” Harris uttered, a note of cynicism in his voice. “I’ll take your word for it, for now. But if it turns out Whalen’s and Francis’s prints are on that black and white photograph of you and your sister, it’ll only please me to pay the Scaramuzzis a little visit.”
“Franny has been through enough already,” I explained.
“How so?”
“The other day I got in his face, yelled at him. Like you, I’d started to believe there could be something more to the paintings than just an active imagination. An accurate imagination, that is.”
I started toward the door, until something else hit me.
“I shut down the center for the week. It’ll hurt Franny, but…”
“Why do that?” Harris begged. “Keeping busy might be the best thing for you right now.”
I took hold of Michael’s hand.
“My partner,” I said. “Robyn Painter. Are you aware of the assault on her last night, Detective Harris?”
I felt my heart pound when I said it. Harris was helping me. But I almost felt angry with him for not having mentioned it already. But then, perhaps he didn’t know that Robyn and I were best friends, despite our working together. The look on his face was hard, angry, tight-lipped. I knew then that he knew about what had happened at that motel.
“Wish I could say we had a better lead on the creep who did it. FBI is taking over the investigation. Your friend, Robyn… she’s not the only one.”
“I’m aware of that.” I swallowed.
Michael took my hand, gave it a squeeze.
Harris picked up the phone, held it in his hand.
“Again, I’ll ask you to call me if something else comes up.”
“What about the paintings?” Michael asked.
“I’m going to hang onto them along with the black and white pic of you and your sister, Rebecca. In the meantime I’m going to check into these texts, see if they really do somehow lead directly to Whalen.”
“I have another painting,” I said, nodding toward the canvas where it was leaned up against Michael’s chair.
Harris glanced at it. “That’s the house?” he asked under his breath.
“Yes.”
“I’m so very sorry.”
I turned away from him, made my way out the door, back into the foul smelling air.
Chapter 42
We left the city and drove in the direction of my apartment.
Michael set his hand on my leg.
“Let’s skip town,” he said. “Why don’t we pack a quick bag, head down to New York for the night. Just like old times. We can get a room at the Gramercy Park, head out to Les Halles for steak frit, maybe a hit a bar or two. Just like we used to do.”
It sounded very appealing. Getting out of town for a night. God it sounded good.
“Do you think it’s a good idea to leave Robyn?”
“She needs rest, Bec. Not visitors. Besides, she’s got her mother and we’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”
Michael was making sense. But there was just one more obstacle.
“What do we use for money?”
He tossed me a grin.
“Got a few bucks put away.”
“You robbed a convenience store and got away with it. Congratulations.”
“I’ve been selling the occasional news piece,” he offered. “Strictly online fluff stuff.”
We pulled into the apartment complex. Michael parked the truck in my designated spot. As we walked around the building to the terrace, I couldn’t help but notice how the sky was blackening, how the clouds were gathering with some speed. There was also a significant wind. Definitely a storm coming.
Outside the apartment door a team of blue uniformed maintenance workers were raking up the leaves. No one seemed to notice me.
I unlocked the door. Stepping inside the apartment, I felt suddenly lighter. Even the thought of heading down to New York for a night was enough to send a flash-wave of optimism cruising through my body.
Michael closed the door behind me.
“So do I have a date for Les Halles tonight or what?”
“Make the reservation,” I said, turning to him, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “I’m going to wash up, pack an overnight bag and we’re gone.”
He smiled, hugged me tight.
“No worries, Bec.”
“It’s all good.” I lied. True or false, it felt good to simply say it.
As I made my way through the hall to the bathroom, I heard the sound of distant thunder.
Chapter 43
Turning on the hot water, I looked at my face in the mirror.
Looked into our faces, I should say.
Molly and me.
Sometimes when I saw my reflected self, I couldn’t help but wonder if Molly would have looked the same, if her ageing process would have mimicked my own. Of course it would have. I wondered about her features, if she would have acquired the same horizontal lines in the forehead, the same little bit of extra skin under the chin, the newly emerging crow’s feet framing the eyes, the subtle hint of grey in the otherwise dirty blonde hair.
In a word, I wondered if she would be me.
I felt the vibration against my thigh. Drying my hands, I pulled the cell phone from my jeans pocket and flipped it open.
Another text.
My heart raced and my mouth went dry.
I thumbed it open.
Cry, cry, cry you naughty kitten
Tears built up behind my eyeballs. I never bothered with checking the Caller ID. I knew who the caller was. I simply closed the phone and slipped it back into my jeans pocket. Breathing in and out, I turned off the water.
Then a loud bang, like someone closing a kitchen drawer. It registered through the bathroom door. It gave my heart a start. Following that, a slight commotion, muffled voices, my bedroom door slamming shut.
Michael.
I wanted to call out his name, but I couldn’t. My hand trembled as I opened the bathroom door and went out into the hall. It took forever to reach the bedroom. But when I did, a loud burst of thunder rattled my bones.
When I opened the bedroom door, I knew immediately that we would not be going to New York City.
Chapter 44
The reality of the situation didn’t immediately register.
It just looked like Michael was lying on the bed as if he was simply taking a quick lie-down before we hit the road for the 140 mile drive south to New York. But a fraction of a second later the fog lifted and the real scene came to light. It was only then that I could see how his shirt was ripped off, how his mouth was gagged with duct tape, how his hands had been hastily duct taped together at the wrists, his legs bound together at the ankles.
He was unconscious, eyes wide shut, body lying fetal on the bed.
I stood there paralyzed. Stood there staring at Michael, one side of his face was pressed into the pillow. The exposed half was lit from the light that leaked in through the open window.
The bedroom was as still as an empty church. My copy of Mockingbird had been tossed onto the floor by the bed. I stood petrified, my feet planted in concrete. I gazed up and down at Michael’s naked chest with a kind of frightened curiosity. There was a small cut that had been made just below his right nipple. A thin line of blood trickled from it, ran down along his ribcage. The dark hair on his head was mussed up. A thin streak of blood ran down the center of his forehead. I knew then he’d been hit over the head with a blunt object.