Against a Brightening Sky (15 page)

“You did the right thing.” Gabe braced himself on the edge of the desk and stood. Stiff and sore, he knew that sitting much longer meant getting up under his own power would be impossible. “One last question and then you can go. Did Nureyev have a reason to run from the Bolsheviks?”

Dominic smiled, but the smile didn't mask the grim, sober look in his eyes. “If you mean was Alek part of the Russian nobility, the answer's yes, Captain. He lost most of his family. Red army soldiers herded his parents, sisters, his wife, and two wee daughters out of their house in the middle of the night. Lined them up against a wall and shot the lot of them.”

“Mary Mother of God. No wonder he thinks Lenin is mad.” Gabe ran fingers through his hair. He couldn't imagine what coming home and finding your family slaughtered was like. “You said he lost most of his family. Who escaped with him?”

“His son. The boy was only six weeks old when Alek ran. I don't know how he managed to keep a baby alive on that trip.” Mullaney frowned, his fists opening and closing as he told the story. “Alek came home the next morning to find his family lying where they fell and strangers looting the house. All the servants had gone except the baby's nursemaid. She'd taken the baby to bed with her that night, and the Reds believed her saying the boy belonged to her. Alek managed to get the three of them to San Francisco.”

Gabe's opinion of Nureyev shifted a little, but didn't entirely change. The man was aloof and arrogant, and extremely distrustful, but it appeared that Aleksei had good reasons not to trust everyone. Still, Gabe couldn't shake the feeling that Aleksei deliberately put people off to keep them at a distance. Nureyev had something to hide. The question was what.

“Thank you for coming in, Dominic. I'll let you know if I have more questions.” Gabe offered his hand, a gesture he hoped would reassure Mullaney. He'd never shake hands with a man he considered a suspect. “Keep your head down. Whoever set you up is still out there.”

Dominic rubbed his palm on his jacket before taking Gabe's hand, a habit he'd seen in other men who worked with their hands. Mullaney's fingers were callused, his grip strong. “I'll be careful. You do the same, Ryan.”

He spoke up before Mullaney had the door all the way open. “Dominic, one last thing. Where was Alek the night his family was shot?”

“Making contacts to smuggle them and a few friends out of the country. His father refused to leave Russia, but his sisters were going to go with him.” Mullaney's tone was brusque, annoyed. He looked Gabe straight in the face. “He'll never forgive himself for not sending his family into hiding until after the arrangements were made. Alek is a good man. I wouldn't have him as a friend if he wasn't.”

Gabe stared at the door after it closed, thinking. Nureyev might be a good man who mourned his family and regretted his choices, but he'd wager Jack lunch for a month there was more to the man. More Aleksei was determined to keep hidden.

All his instincts told Gabe he needed to find out what Nureyev was keeping secret and why. More people, including Dominic Mullaney, would die otherwise.

He wasn't sure of much in this case, but Gabe was sure of that down to his bones.

 

CHAPTER 8

Delia

The streets were oddly empty of spirits. A drive from the French Quarter to Libby's settlement house downtown passed through older sections of the city, including areas leveled by the 1906 quake and fire. On a normal day, the sidewalks were thick with ghosts and I might see anything from the haunts of shopkeepers who'd died in the quake to Spanish padres leading heavily laden mules, and everything between. Today only the palest, oldest ghosts walked unseen pathways, and there were few enough of those.

Once I'd desired nothing more than to be free of ghosts, to never see one watching from the edges of a room or moving through the walls of a pleasant café. Now a lack of spirits unnerved me, as if the natural order of things had been unbalanced. Fair or unfair, I placed the blame on the watcher. I couldn't sense its presence, but that didn't mean the guardian hadn't followed along with us.

Isadora had slowed the car considerably, frowning and glancing left and right as we crept along the street. “How very odd. This guardian, or watcher as you call it, displaces all the local spiritual activity. I don't think I've ever encountered anything quite like this, Dee. Not to this extent.”

“I know that I haven't.” The princess ghost still hadn't returned to her place in the corner of the windscreen, giving more credence to my feelings. “It's not that the other ghosts are gone, they've … they've been pushed aside. The watcher doesn't leave enough space for them.”

She gave me one of her small, approving smiles. “Very good, Dee. You've summed the effect up perfectly, but I'd feel easier about all of this if I understood the forces at work. Not knowing makes me nervous; especially since the guardian's influence increases the closer we get to Libby's house.”

“Then coming here was the right decision. This must have something to do with Alina.” I sat back in the brown leather seat, trying to relax. The car continued to creep along slowly, almost as if the engine labored to move the automobile through the same space occupied by the watcher. That was silly and I knew it, but I couldn't think of a better explanation. I couldn't blame a newfound sense of caution on Dora's part.

We rounded the corner onto Battery. Libby's settlement house was the fifth building on the left, and Dora was able to park reasonably close. A plain three-story brick-front building, the house looked more like a crumbling warehouse than a home for displaced women and children.

Stunted red and white geraniums grew in planters on either side of the front door, an attempt by one of the residents to bring a bit of cheer to her new home. Curtains fluttered on open top-floor windows, and the sound of children playing carried down to the street. The wide ground-floor windows were painted over on the inside, blind eyes staring out at the world.

Dora came around to where I stood on the sidewalk. She slipped her arm through mine and eyed the building with a degree of distaste. “Cheery place, isn't it? Come along, Dee. Perhaps things will improve once we're inside.”

Five stone steps led up from the sidewalk to the front door. Dora knocked and I took the opportunity to look around. A man stepped out of a shadowed doorway across the street, giving me a start. Officer Perry tipped his hat back so that I could see his face and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of an overcoat pocket. He took his time lighting his cigarette, making sure I'd seen him. I relaxed a little, knowing he was watching us.

The door opened a crack after Dora knocked a third time. “Delia? Isadora?” Libby pulled the door wide and stepped out, her expression a mix of nervousness and surprise. She was dressed plainly, wearing a pleated dark skirt and pale gray blouse, an outfit that wouldn't look out of place on Katherine Fitzgerald's chambermaid. “Come in, both of you. I didn't expect to see you here. Is something wrong?”

The entryway was less dreary than outside, but not by much. All the furniture was mismatched, used hand-me-downs that had seen better days, most likely donations from some well-meaning soul. I shied away from imagining Libby hauling home furniture she'd found on the curb. The air inside wasn't stale or unpleasant, but the prevailing scent reminded me of delving into my grandmother's linen cupboard. A few outdated paintings and lithographs in gold-leafed frames hung on the walls, adding to the overall sense of tattered grandeur.

Dora wandered the large entry hall, a smile pasted on her face. She didn't speak or comment on Libby's greeting. The tightness around her eyes and the stiff way she carried herself were a warning and a sign. She was in pain, I saw that, I just didn't know why. Why was likely important.

Libby watched Isadora, her frown growing darker. She didn't believe in the occult or the spirit realm, and wouldn't understand if I tried to explain.

“We felt honor bound to check on you.” I stuffed my gloves into my pockets and unbuttoned my coat. “Yesterday was trying for all of us. I wanted to make sure everything is going smoothly.”

“Trying days are meant to be survived and overcome.” Libby took my coat and hung it on a rack near the door. She turned to face us, hands held primly at her waist and expression perfectly composed. “I'm not one to indulge in hysterics, no matter what the circumstances. I couldn't be better.”

“That's all very nice, Miss Mills.” Dora turned from the painting she'd been studying, her smile brittle and strained. “I imagine you could endure almost anything and emerge unscathed. To be brutally honest, Alina is the one we're concerned about.”

I stepped between the two of them, determined not to let the sniping continue or allow them come to blows. Given the scowl on Libby's face, blows were a very real possibility. “Yes, how is Alina? She was so completely shattered, I worried about her all night. Has she remembered anything more?”

“Alina is doing as well as can be expected.” Libby gave Isadora a spite-filled look and turned her back, dismissing her. Dora rolled her eyes and began restlessly stalking the entry again. “I sat with her a large part of the night. She kept starting awake, or sitting up and talking in her sleep. Alina didn't really settle down until nearly four. Last I looked in, she was still sleeping. I saw no reason to wake her.”

I traded looks with Dora. Sleep might relax the walls around her memory. “Do you remember any of what she said, Libby? It might be important.”

“I'm afraid not.” She frowned and brushed at a spot on her blouse. “At times I thought she was calling out names, but I can't say for sure. She wasn't speaking English.”

A barefoot, tow-haired little boy of not more than three or four dashed into the entry. He ran as quickly as he could and hid behind Libby's skirts. She scooped him up, giving him a hug and ruffling his hair. “We have company, Jake. Mind your manners and say a proper hello to Mrs. Ryan and Miss Bobet.”

Jake laid his head on Libby's shoulder and smiled shyly. “Hello.”

“Hello, Jake.” I gently tapped the tip of his nose, earning a grin. “Pleased to meet you.”

Libby hugged him again and set him down. “All right, you've seen who came in, nosy boy. Now back to the kitchen with you. Tell Patty I said to give you some bread and butter. That should keep you busy for a minute or two.”

He ran back the way he'd come. Dora watched him go, her expression an odd mix of tenderness and sadness. “He misses his mother. Each time the front door opens, he hopes she's come back again.” She turned to Libby, all trace of impatience and anger gone. “Does he talk about what happened?”

“How did you—?” Libby stared, her already fair skin losing what little color it held. She wrapped her arms across her chest, holding tight to herself and what she believed. “Please stop pretending some spirit guide or magic power tells you things. The only way for you to know about my sister is from Sam. Since you asked, no, Jake doesn't remember anything about that night. He's even stopped asking for Miranda. She wouldn't have wanted how she died following him the rest of his life.”

Dora looked the way Jake had gone, one long lacquered nail tapping against the clasp of her handbag. She glanced at me and moved closer to Libby, stopping short when Libby took a step back. “Take this advice to heart, Libby, for Jake's sake. He remembers much more than you think about his mother's death. Get him to talk about the happy things surrounding his mother's memory. Right now, all he associates with your sister is the horror of watching her die. Believe me when I say that will do far more damage in the end.”

“And you know all this after one minute with my nephew?”

“Children haven't learned to build walls around their feelings.” Dora rummaged in her bag and immediately snapped it closed again. She'd taken to always leaving her flask at home, a newly reached compromise with Randy, but at times she still looked for it. “They leave that to the adults in their lives. He's confused and afraid, but doesn't think he can tell you. Somehow Jake's gotten the idea he should pretend all's well.”

Libby's lower lip trembled, the first crack I'd seen in her armor. “I'd never do anything to hurt Jake. Sam told me to trust you, so I'll trust you on this. That doesn't mean I believe in spirits or all the rest.”

“Of course not.” Dora grimaced and massaged her temple. “Now, be a dear and tell us where to find Alina.”

“Her room is on the second floor.” Libby brushed a hand over her eyes. “I'll take you up.”

She led us down a short hallway to the foot of the stairs. The air of age and faded grace that surrounded the house grew stronger as we climbed. Wallpaper in the stairwell had faded to nothing but hints and shadows of rosebuds, and each stair creaked alarmingly under our weight. Libby didn't seem to notice the way the banister wobbled, but I did.

Dora gripped my arm tight and trailed a hand against the wall, her bright smile firmly in place each time Libby glanced back. I'd have to be made of wood not to feel her tremble, or hear how her breath rasped with the effort of taking each step. Why she felt the need to put up a brave front for Libby I couldn't say. “Are you all right?”

Her smile wobbled as badly as the banister, but the amusement in her eyes was reassuring. “We've known each other more than four years, and yet you still feel the need to ask. I'm touched.” Dora fixed her gaze on the second-floor landing. “No, I'm far from all right, but I'll survive. There is so much pain in this house, Dee, so much pent-up sorrow. I'd no idea or I'd have insisted on making other arrangements for Alina. She'll be much better off coming home with me.”

I leaned close. “Libby won't take that well. Convincing her will be difficult.”