Immortal Muse (22 page)

She had to hurry, or he would find her first. If that happened . . .
No, you won't think about that now.

Walters folded his hands on top of the check. His craggy face looked up at her. “You know, you're about my granddaughter Beth's age. Maybe that makes me sentimental.”

“Mr. Walters, y'know, I've already had about as much condescension this morning as I can take . . .”

His slab of a hand lifted; he shook his gray-fringed head and leaned back in his chair, which creaked dangerously and threatened to overbalance. “No. Hear me out. This is a lot of money for someone your age. I don't care where or how you got it, but . . .” Gray-blue eyes regarded her. She could imagine those eyes on the other side of an interrogation table, cold and unblinking. “Camille Kenny. That's an unusual name,” he said. “Y'know, I get curious about my clients, especially the ones who give me interesting jobs or interesting requests. Sometimes I check them out a bit, just to know them better. What's strange is that Camille Kenny doesn't have much of a paper trail prior to five years ago. None at all, as a matter of fact. No schools attended, no jobs, no residences, no licenses, no nothing. In fact, I found a birth certificate for Camille Kenny, born in Cincinnati—you were born in Cincinnati, right, to Ted and Elizabeth Kenny?—born the same day you were born and with the same social security number. Only trouble is that according to a death certificate I ran across,
that
Camille Kenny died two years after she was born.”

Camille flushed. A slow panic began to build in her stomach. She started to turn, to leave. “Wait, young lady,” Walters said loudly. He hadn't moved from his reclined position. “I ain't a cop. Not anymore. I don't give a damn if you're who you say you are or not. Camille Kenny, at least for as long as I can find out anything about her, seems to be a decent enough person. Maybe better than most I run into or have worked for. I'm just pointing out that there's a lot that's strange about this quest of yours—and it's not just this mysterious guy you're trying to track down. I don't need the whole story; I'll do the job you paid me for and shut up. However, I think you got a wild hare up your ass with the Treadway woman. For all you know, the guy she's seeing ain't your guy. In fact, from what you've told me, that would be a huge coincidence. It's probably some poor schmuck who works where she works: a rebound lover. Why toss all this green at a wild card?”

“If I tell you that I have my reasons, will that be enough?” she asked him.

It was hard to tell whether he shrugged or not; the chair creaked, but he might have just been adjusting his position. “This guy—he's a danger to you?”

“To me, and to
anyone
he's around. Trust me on that.”

“You said a while ago that he goes through a lot of aliases. Same reason as you?”

She hesitated before answering, then decided there was no reason to try to pretend. “Yes. And no.” She hesitated a moment. “And I have another name for you to check: Timothy Pierce. Supposedly lives uptown somewhere. Likes to collect art.”

“You think he's your guy?”

“Don't know. Maybe. Why don't you find out?”

After a moment, Walters leaned forward again, the chair's springs protesting against the abuse. “Fair enough,” he said. “You're my client; I'll trust you know what you're doing. I'll cash the check and get my guy started on things, and I'll check out Pierce. Should only take a couple days. In the meantime, if this guy's such a danger to you, if you're worried about him getting too close, you got anything to protect yourself?”

She nodded. The purse, with the Ladysmith and a few vials of chemicals snuggled inside, lay heavy at her side, and there were the spells she memorized each morning burning in her head. “I can take care of myself. And, Mr. Walters, if you do find him, please don't let him see you or think that you're on to him. I'm telling you, if he believes you represent a threat to him, he'll do something drastic about it. I know him; you don't. He's capable of anything. Anything. I want you to be very careful.”

He grunted. That was all the answer she received.

 * * * 

Fr
om Walters' office, she went back to her own apartment. David was still gone. She fed Verdette, stroking the cat absently as she pondered the meeting with Morris and her conversation with Walters. “I don't know,” she said to Verdette. “Maybe I'm making a mistake staying around here. Maybe I should just pack up and leave the city before David gets back, just drop everything. I could start the hunt again later, when I
know
he's not expecting me. Maybe we could go back to Europe for a bit. To Paris. Would you like that?—though you know it would mean a few months in a cage for you again.”

Verdette only purred mysteriously in answer.

She opened her laptop on the small kitchen table and googled
Timothy Pierce Manhattan
, then checked the various images that came up. None of them looked to be Nicolas. She frowned and closed the laptop again.

She went to her bedroom. The katana she used for iado and aikido practice stood on its stand on top of her dresser, but she ignored that—one couldn't walk around the streets of the city carrying a sword. Instead, she opened the drawer of her nightstand, burrowing through her panties until her hand touched a box at the back. She pulled out the wooden case and opened it: the velvet nest for the Smith & Wesson Ladysmith .38 was there. She took the Ladysmith from her purse and plucked the cleaning rag from the box to wipe the burnished and blued steel and polished wood. She'd bought the revolver several years ago, before she'd taken the name she now used.

She hefted the weapon in her hand and put it back in her purse.
Yes, Nicolas is somewhere here in the city, but he hasn't found you again. You're misreading the cards and the signs. You're still the hunter, not the prey . . .

But inside, the doubts were growing louder.
Helen's boyfriend, Morris' patron—they could be the same. That could be Nicolas. And if that's true, then he knows who you are. He knows to look for artists, to look for those whose talent is suddenly blossoming. And you know that the longer you let him live, the more people will suffer and die for his pleasure . . .

She gave Verdette a final rub around the ears and left the apartment; she didn't expect David back until evening, and the refrigerator was looking exceedingly forlorn. If nothing else, grocery shopping might take her mind away from the paranoia.

She found David back at her apartment when she returned, watching television. She put the canvas grocery bags down at the door, set her purse on the couch and went to him, straddling him in the chair. She hugged David fiercely, kissing him with an urgency and passion that surprised even her. “Hey,” he said, pushing her away from him slightly. In this light, his eyes were nearly blue, and quizzical. “It's only been half a day. Did you miss me that much?”

“Yes,” she told him, her arms still firmly around his shoulders. “Do you mind?”

He laughed. “Do I look stupid?”

“Good. You can help me put groceries away, and then we can go do whatever you'd like.”

She led him toward the door and the bags there. As they passed the couch, she felt David's hand pull against hers. “What's that?” She glanced back to see him staring at her purse; it had sagged open and the handle of the Ladysmith was visible, nestled between her wallet and cell phone, the handle displaying the polish of having been handled many times. “You carry a
gun
?”

“Yes,” she told him, “and I also have a permit. I have a sword, too, remember?”

“You study a martial art—that explains the sword. Why do you have a gun?” He was still staring at the handle.

She knew he wouldn't believe the truth. Couldn't believe it.
I have the gun because it would stop Nicolas. For a little bit. But not forever. Shooting him will never stop him forever, no matter how many bullets I put in him. But I do know a way, and I'll use that after I shoot the bastard.
“There's this guy . . . a stalker,” she said.

“You have a stalker?” he repeated. “Why haven't you called the cops? Who is he? Do you have a restraining order on him? And why am I just hearing about this?”

“It's not a subject that comes up in many conversations. ‘Hi, I'm Camille and I have a stalker' is not exactly a great way to start out a relationship. But, yes, I have a stalker.” She looked at him, still holding his hand. “David, is this a problem?”

“Well, no,” he answered. He didn't sound entirely certain. “It's just . . . Who is this guy? How long has this been going on?”

It was easy enough to make up a believable mixture of truth and lies that made him subside into concerned empathy: she told David it had been going on for a few years, that he used various names and moved around a lot, that the police were aware of it but weren't able to do much about it and didn't consider it a priority. Yes, he'd threatened violence. No, she hadn't had contact with him in a long time, and maybe, maybe he'd given up stalking her. “Then why this?” he asked, pointing at the bag.

“Because I don't
know
,” she told him. “Because if he is out there, I want to have a defense.”

“Ever had to use it?”

Have I shot Nicolas? Yes. More than once. But never with this gun.
Could she use the weapon? She had no doubt of that. But it seemed best to leave that unsaid. “No,” she said, “but I wouldn't want to
not
have it if I did need it. Can you understand that?”

“I suppose. You're scared. I get that.”

“But . . . ?”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry, Camille,” he told her. “I gotta be honest. Having a gun around . . . I'm bothered by that. I'm not a gun person. I've never owned a gun, never fired one, don't intend to ever own one. I really don't like the idea of having one in the apartment or in your purse.”

She could feel the certainty in his voice. The green hue that had connected her to him was drawn tight inside him, closed off.
You could lose him over this.
The realization was a cold fist in her chest, but she hesitated. Losing David would free her and protect David at the same time—she could go somewhere else, take on a new name, lose herself again. She could do what she'd been tempted to do a few hours ago. She'd allowed her desire for someone and her obsessions and needs to overrule her judgment in the past. Yet having found another possibility like David and feeling again what he could give her made her want to hold it even more tightly.

You're still hunting Nicolas. That's the most important task right now. He hasn't found you. If you find him or if Walters does, then you have to be able to do whatever you need to do. As long as Nicolas is around, David is in danger. You
know
that.

If she wanted David, if she still believed that the decision to bond with him was the right one, she had to make a decision. “I understand the way you feel,” she said. “But I made the decision to carry the gun for my own safety, and I did the work necessary to do that. It wasn't a decision I made lightly, and I'm very careful about it. Is it a deal breaker, David? Because I have to be honest here: I'm keeping the gun.”

She watched his face, watched the emotions that flitted past his eyes and touched the muscles of his jawline that pressed his mouth into a thin line.

“Okay,” he said finally, and she began to breathe again. “I don't like it. I'll never like it. But . . . okay, if that's the way it has to be, then I'll trust you.”

She smiled. “That's all I ask,” she told him. “That's all I'll ever ask of you. Thank you, David. You have no idea how much that means.” She went to him, embracing him tightly. “You have no idea,” she repeated.

 * * * 

She encouraged David to return to his studio the next day. After the confrontation over the handgun, she wanted—no, she
needed
—the connection with his green heart. Being with David while he worked on his photography would provide that. “I'll cook up the salmon I bought and we can eat there. I just have to feed Verdette before we go. You can work; besides, I'd like to see those prints of me you took the other day on something other than my laptop, all cleaned up and photoshopped.”

He shrugged, though without the enthusiasm she might have wanted. “Sounds okay. I don't know how much longer I can keep the place, anyway.”

“Don't worry about that,” she answered. “I told you; I have a trust fund. I can pull money from it if you're short. The studio's yours; it'll stay yours.”

“You don't need to do that.”

“You don't want to be a kept man?” The joke fell flat; she saw the flash of embarrassment in his face. “David, if we're going to be together, then part of the deal is that you have to let me help you. There's not really room in my place for you to set up your cameras, lights, and backdrops, or to arrange your computers, monitors, printers, and all the framing stuff. You need to keep your studio.”

He paused, and she felt the wall within him open, the lush radiance tentatively embracing her again. “That logic works both ways, Camille. In my studio, there's more than enough room for
your
stuff—your paintings and easels, your keyboard and amp, your computer. Even that damn chemistry set of yours. I'll bet Verdette would love the extra space to roam around in. That'd exorcise Helen's ghost, if nothing else—she absolutely hates cats.”

“Are you asking me to move in with you?”

He shrugged. “One place would be cheaper than two, especially in this city. And I like cats—even if the cat doesn't seem to like me.”

“I'd have to think about it,” she told him, and wasn't certain whether it was disappointment or relief that crossed his face. “We've known each other, what, a few weeks now? We don't have to make a decision this quickly. In fact, we shouldn't. We can take our time. For right now, let's keep both places—until we're sure.”