Immortal Muse (30 page)

“Oh,” David said. He glanced at Camille, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her face. “I didn't tell you about that. Helen has a . . . friend she's been seeing.” He turned back to Helen. “So that's still going well?”

“Yes,” Helen said, and her smile was genuine and enthusiastic. “It is. Come on, I'll introduce the two of you. He's up on the roof terrace.”

David looked at Camille again. “Sure,” he said. “We'd like to meet him.”

He started to follow Helen up the staircase to the roof level. Camille stopped at the foot of the stair. “He works at Beth Israel,” Camille heard Helen say to David.

“Beth Israel?” David answered. “So he's a doctor?”

Helen laughed. “I told you that the other day. Weren't you listening?”

Camille clutched at the handrail. David glanced back, his face quizzical. “Camille? You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I'm coming.” She opened the snap of her purse as they emerged onto the roof. The cedar hot tub was filled with a half-dozen guests who appeared to be wearing nothing at all. Others, mostly couples, were standing around the terrace or sitting at the tables. Camille approached a man standing near the railing.

He was short, with longish brown hair, and Camille was feeling the beginning of panic even before he turned, before Helen spoke. “Dr. Timothy Pierce. Timothy, this is David Treadway, my soon-to-be former husband. And Camille Kenny, his . . . current muse.”

The eyes, the mouth, the way he stood . . . The shock hit Camille so hard that she took a step backward, the instinct to flight almost too strong. But she resisted. Her hand slipped into her purse, her fingers searching out the handle of the Ladysmith and flicking off the safety. She didn't believe he'd be blatant enough to attack her here. Not in public; it wasn't his way. But if he did, she'd respond.
You can shoot through the purse. If you see him start to cast one of his spells . . .

If he was equally startled at seeing her, he gave no sign. “Hello,” Pierce/Nicolas said, holding out his hand to David. “Good to meet you, and to finally see your work. Jacob knows that I was looking for good pieces for my office; now I've found some.” He extended his hand to Camille. “And you've found a most beautiful model,” he said. “Worthy of Bernini, I have to say. Such a lovely, exquisite face and body.”

His hand hung in the air between them. With a twitch of her lips, Camille removed her hand from her purse and took it. He pressed slightly too hard and slightly too long. “Dr. Pierce,” she said, as if tasting the name. Her hand went back into the purse, her fingers sliding around the wooden handle of the Ladysmith, her index finger curling around the trigger. “Cosmetic surgeon? Fixing those faces you find so attractive?”

His returning smile was cold. “I'm afraid not. Research Oncologist. I'm studying experimental ingredients for chemotherapy.” His eyes held Camille's “Chemistry is my passion. That, and amateur magic.”

“You know my friend Morris Johnson, I believe. The sculptor.”

He chuckled. “Ah, yes. Him. Now I remember where I've heard your name before. Morris is a talented fellow, though he seemed distraught that you'd abandon him for David here. I've commissioned a work from him.”

“I'm sure you'll like it,” Camille told him. “‘
Vengeance.'
That's a sinister title, I have to say.”

“Yet that particular emotion drives many people through hard times when they might otherwise give up, don't you think? Vengeance is a passion with incredible power, as I'm sure you realize.”

“And you do as well, Dr. Piece.”

“I believe many of us have something they desire to achieve more than anything else,” he answered. “In fact, I'm willing to bet you're one of those people yourself. What is it that drives you, Ms. Kenny? Is it also vengeance?”

“Well, you two are certainly the conversationalists,” Helen interjected quickly before Camille could answer. She laced her arm protectively with Pierce's, smiling tightly; she stood half a head taller than the man, just as David towered over Camille. “Isn't this a perfectly gorgeous view? David, wouldn't this make a lovely photograph?”

David glanced at the landscape before them: the dancing swirl of red taillights and blue-white headlights, the sound of the streets muted and distant, the buildings defined by fluorescent-illuminated office windows and the city-glow behind them through which a few stars managed to glitter. “Not really, just a postcard like a thousand others,” he commented, then glanced down toward the deep canyon of the street. “That'd be a hell of a nasty fall, though.”

“Oh, you'd be surprised what kind of a fall someone can survive,” Pierce said, glancing down the flank of the building, then over to Camille. “I've seen people manage to live when I was convinced they'd die.” He smiled. “When they
should
have died,” he added. “Some people are stubborn that way. They think they're supposed to live forever.”

David and Helen laughed. “Yeah, I was afraid I was going to see something like that myself recently,” David said, and Camille knew that he was remembering her dancing on the ledge of his studio rooftop.

“Well,” Pierce said, “it's a genuine pleasure to meet the two of you. I should go downstairs and talk to Jacob about buying a few of your photographs. Helen, shall we?” He nodded to them as he and Helen walked off, his gaze lingering on Camille.

Shoot him. Shoot him now.
But that wouldn't kill him and she had nothing with which she could finish the job. It would only end with her arrested and in jail for assault, and Nicolas would slip away from her once more.

Or worse. Much worse.

David put his arm around Camille. “Well, that wasn't so bad, I guess . . .” he started to say, then stopped. “You're trembling. What's wrong?”

She took a long, slow breath. She slid the safety of the Ladysmith back on. “Nothing,” she told him. “It's just a little chilly up here.”

 * * * 

“
What are you doing here?”

Helen was holding the door open only a crack, with the chain still significantly attached to the frame. She peered at Camille through the opening. It was not a friendly stare.

Now that she was here, Camille wasn't quite certain how to proceed. She'd played the scenario over and over in her head in the last few days. She'd watched Helen's apartment from the park across the street, hoping to see Nicolas: the Ladysmith in her purse, her katana in its nylon bag strapped to her back, her dogi bag as camouflage at her side as if she were going to aikido class. Girded for war, she thought.

But Nicolas had never appeared. That didn't surprise her; he'd know that she might try to find him through Helen, so it made sense he'd make excuses to stay away. She'd watched Beth Israel as well; Nicolas never showed himself there, either.

He'd gone to ground somewhere.

And now she was here to warn Helen, to try to save her.

Camille had consulted her Tarot for guidance in contacting Helen, but none of the readings helped against the reality of the woman's glare over the chain. Yet she couldn't in good conscience say nothing to Helen about Nicolas—she knew him far too well. Helen was an innocent in this and deserved a chance.

“I need to talk to you, Helen,” Camille told her. “It's important.”

She waited, watching Helen's face, twisted in a moue of mingled irritation and uncertainty. Finally, Helen pressed her lips together and closed the door. Camille heard the rattle of the chain, and the door opened again. “I have to leave in a few minutes for an appointment,” Helen said, her arm still blocking the door.

“That's fine. I won't be long.”

Helen's arm dropped and she stepped back into the room. Camille entered.

The room—unsurprisingly after seeing how Camille and David's apartment had looked—was uncluttered and modern, with glossy hardwood floors covered here and there with expensive-looking area rugs. The Impressionist prints were up on the walls. There were magazines arranged tastefully on the coffee table in front of the couch; none of the titles looked particularly like something a male might have chosen to read. This was distinctly
Helen's
place. Not Pierce's. There was nothing of him in any of this. He wasn't staying here.

That didn't surprise Camille. She didn't expect that Pierce intended Helen to be a long relationship. He undoubtedly already had obtained most, if not all, of what he wanted from her.

Helen didn't sit. She stood, hands crossed protectively across her stomach, in the foyer without moving into the living room area, forcing Camille to also stand. “Well?” she asked. “What is it that's so important?”

“Pierce,” Camille said without preamble.

Helen's eyes narrowed with the name. “What about Timothy?”

“You heard us talking at Prudhomme's party. I saw the look of suspicion you gave us, and the way you interrupted us as we were talking to hurry him off. Did we sound to you like two people who had just met? Did you ask him about that after we parted? Did you ask him if he knew me?”

“Yes,” she admitted. Her arms tightened around her. “He said he knew
about
you through Prudhomme because he's been interested in David's photos of you, and that he'd bought a litho portrait of you from some other artist without knowing it was you, but that the artist had also told him a little about you.” Helen scowled. “Nothing the artist had to say about you was particularly complimentary, either, from what Timothy suggested.”

“That last bit might be the truth,” Camille told her, “given the source. But not the rest of his story. The truth is that your Timothy and I have known each other for a long time. That's why I came here, Helen.”

“I don't believe you,” she said defiantly, though she wouldn't meet Camille's eyes.

“I know you don't. But it's the truth, nonetheless.”

Helen looked away into the living room, as if searching for something there. “Are you saying you've slept with him?”

“We were married once,” Camille told her. “He probably left that out when he was talking about me.”

That garnered Camille another bark of disbelief. Helen's eyes were shimmering with tears. “I think you need to leave.”

“What I'm telling you is true,” Camille said desperately. “I'm sorry, Helen, but it's true. Pierce . . . he's a danger to you. I mean it. He'll hurt you, or worse. He can pretend to be charming, but he's a psychopath.”

She wouldn't look at Camille. Her hands unfolded from her waist and wiped at her eyes, almost as if she were angry with them for betraying her. “Get out,” she said. “Get out of here or I'll call the police.”

“Helen, you have to listen to me. Pierce isn't who he says he is. He wants me, and now that he's found me . . .”

“My God!” Helen exclaimed. Her hands fluttered in the air. “You think he wants
you?
It's not enough that you took David away from me; now you have to destroy my relationship with Tim just as it's starting? Get out! Now!” This time she pushed at Camille, who had to take a step backward to regain her balance.

“Helen, I'm serious. You're in terrible danger, you really are . . .”

“Out!” She pushed again, and Camille felt the back of the doorframe hit her spine. Helen reached past her and yanked the door open. “If you
ever
bother me again, I swear I'll call the police. Out!”

Camille was still shaking her head, but she slid through the doorway into the hall. The door slammed shut almost before she was through. From the other side, she heard a sob, then the sound of the chain being set again.

“Well, that went well,” she muttered to herself. “You tried.” The excuse did nothing to settle the sour burning in her stomach and the atmosphere of dread that surrounded her as she stared at the door.

 * * * 

She did what little she could, driven partially by her own fear, partially by guilt at what this might mean for Helen. She went to Beth Israel after talking to Helen. The Ladysmith was heavy in her purse and the katana dragged at her back; Nicolas' magical skills might be impressive, but for her, a modern gun was far more effective. Nicolas would talk to her first before attacking, mocking her: that was his way. She should be able to get off the first shot and disable him, take him down for long enough to do more. He was pretending to be a surgeon; even without the katana, there might be medical instruments within easy grasp. In the right situation, in the right place, she might be able to do what she needed to do before someone stopped her. If she could kill Nicolas—finally, completely this time—then she'd accept whatever happened to her afterward.

It would be worth it.

But she wouldn't do anything unless she was confident of success. Just disabling him, letting him escape, being captured herself before she could finish the execution: none of that was acceptable.

The front desk gave his office location as in the building next to the hospital itself. She went to the office and stood outside for several minutes, looking in at a harried-looking female receptionist at the front desk. There were no patients in the waiting room, no indication that Nicolas might be there. After waiting ten minutes in the corridor, she opened the door and went in. The receptionist glanced up at her, looking suspiciously at the katana bag.

“I'm sorry,” she began even before Camille could speak, “Dr. Pierce isn't in. Did you have an appointment today? I can reschedule you . . .” Keys rattled on the keyboard in front of her as she looked at the monitor. The young woman had long, curving artificial nails extending well past the fingertips; Camille wondered how she was able to type at all. The receptionist looked to be no older than twenty; she brushed long strands of hair from her eyes as she leaned toward the monitor.