Grim Shadows

TWENTY-EIGHT

HADLEY DIDN’T SAY A word as Levin led them into a locked hallway on the second floor of the theater. Surely this was all wrong. There was an explanation of some sort. A good reason. She remembered back to that afternoon they’d eaten clam chowder at the wharf, and Mrs. Alioto had mentioned Monk Morales was looking for him. Lowe had trivialized it. Made it sound like it was nothing.

Running a forgery ring was not her idea of nothing.

In her mind, Lowe’s face splintered into two images: the Lowe she knew—the one she’d given her body and heart to—and the Lowe she’d pictured before they ever met. The digger. Treasure hunter. Part of a family of criminals.

Forger.

Levin unlocked a door. The policemen waited outside while she trailed Lowe and Mr. Morales into a grand office that had dark wood, expensive rugs, a fireplace, and a ridiculously dramatic desk that took up half the room. The walls were lined with shelves. Mostly books, but a few stray Egyptian pieces. No canopic jars. And at the moment, she couldn’t even make herself care.

Levin paused in front of the fireplace. He warmed his hands for a moment, and then settled behind his enormous desk, looking more like a king than a theater owner in his high-backed leather chair. “I must say, Miss Bacall, I wouldn’t have guessed you’d have friends in such low places.”

Her shoulders went rigid. “You know who I am?”

“Spitting image of your mother. My late wife was friendly with her. They used to rub elbows at museum parties.”

Maybe it was his late wife who acquired the canopic jar from her mother.

Levin reached in a desk drawer and pulled out a cigar. “And everyone knows your father, of course. We run into each other in New York now and then. Or we used to, when he’d make the trip out East to bid on pieces for the museum.”

“He’s never spoken of you,” she said tartly.

Levin snipped off the tip of his cigar. “It’s been a few years since I’ve seen him. But when Monk’s men reported hearing about the two of you”—he nodded at Lowe—“gallivanting around town together, I was surprised. Does Dr. Bacall know you’re making time with a con artist? Because I would think the museum would frown upon such affiliations. Could tarnish their reputation—especially if word got out that Mr. Magnusson is playing the forgery game.”

“Leave her out of this,” Lowe said. “She has no knowledge of any of it. And frankly, Mr. Levin, I didn’t make the deal with you—this matter is between Monk and me.”

“It damn sure is,” Monk said, pushing the brim of his hat high on his brow until it looked as if it might fall off his head. “And what are you gonna do to square it?”

“The only thing I can do. Return your money.” Lowe narrowed his eyes and raised his hand as if to calm the air between them. “I can stop by your place and give you half in cash tomorrow—”

“I don’t want my money back,” Levin said, throwing the cigar on his desk like an overgrown child. “I want the real statue.”

“Not mine to give,” Lowe said.

“Is that right?” Levin snagged the base of his candlestick telephone and angrily set it down in front of him with a thud. “Then shall I call the Scottish collector myself and let him know there’s a possibility his crocodile is a forgery, as well?”

Lowe closed his eyes briefly and exhaled heavily through his nostrils. “Listen—”

“How long have you been doing this?” Hadley said, interrupting the conversation. She really didn’t care if the other men were gangsters or kings. “How long?”

Lowe’s face turned toward hers. “Hadley—”

“Is that what you’re doing with all the finds you bring back from Egypt?”

“No. No,” he repeated. “I’ll tell you everything.” His voice was low. Eyes, pleading. “Please. Just let me talk to Monk.”

All at once, the heat left her body as her mind drew a line from the crocodile statue to the reason they were at the theater. “The amulet,” she whispered, covering her mouth with her fingers. “That too?”

“Hadley—”

She jerked away from his reach. “Tell me, right now. Look me in the eye and tell me you weren’t going to cheat my father. That you weren’t going to let him hand you a check while . . .” God, she couldn’t breathe. Could barely talk. “Please tell me that you weren’t going to let him die to make a dollar.”

Lowe rushed for her as she tried to back up. He managed to grabbed her hand and pull it against his chest. She could feel his heart racing. “I swear to all things holy, I wasn’t. I mean, I was—at the beginning. I needed the money, and fast. I didn’t know you, or your father. I didn’t know this would happen between us.”

Her eyes blurred. “But it did.”

“And I changed my plans to go through with it,” Lowe insisted, his bright blue eyes rapidly darting back and forth, as he intently tried to trap her gaze. “I couldn’t—wouldn’t. God, Hadley, please believe me. I promised you I wouldn’t lie when this hand is holding yours.”

“You should’ve told me!” Hadley jerked away from his grip and swiped at her eyes. Hurt and anger shredded her good sense into tiny pieces that blew away like confetti. Her chest hurt. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. And like a siren’s call, her swell of grief called to the specters, clanging a silent alarm. She felt them come: shadows slithering in the corners of the room . . . dark shapes shifting in the background of her bleary vision. The temperature in the cozy office dropped several degrees.

“Your personal problems are riveting,” Levin said dryly. “And I’m sure your father will be thrilled to hear that you’re consorting with men like Magnusson. But unless you want the entire city to know, I suggest you convince your beau here to do what I’ve asked. I want the real statue. Immediately.”

Lowe ignored the man and held his hands out as she backed away. “Hadley, don’t. Take a deep breath. You can kill me later if you want, but don’t hurt them. You’ll regret it.”

“You should’ve told me,” she repeated. A black sea of Mori specters covered the room, climbing the bookshelves. Scurrying across the ceiling. Rising up from the floor. Their half-human shapes circled Lowe.

They were so hungry.

Hadley’s control was slipping. She heard an anguished growl and was distantly aware it came from her.

“What the hell is going on?” Levin mumbled.

“Magnusson,” Monk barked. “If you ever want to work again, you’d better pay attention. I want my money back, and Levin wants the real statue. Get your ass over here and start making calls.”

“Hadley, please. Count if you need to,” Lowe said.

She was beyond counting. Or caring.

“I’m not screwing around.” Monk’s arm lifted. Metal clicked.

Hadley swiveled in time to see a gun pointed in Lowe’s direction. And that’s when she snapped.

The Mori swarmed to a shelf near Monk and pushed a vase over the edge. It tumbled through the air and shattered on his shoulder, sending out a shower of ceramic shards.

“Arghhhh!” Monk stumbled as the gun flew from his hand.

Lowe lunged after it, while Levin leapt up from his chair with a confused shout.

And in the scuffle, Hadley gave the Mori their freedom. They’re yours, she thought.

Their collective dark shiver reverberated through her bones.

Books shot off the shelves, pages flapping—leather-bound bullets sailing from every direction, pummeling the three men. Monk’s knees buckled. He fell to the floor under a pile of books. Glass shattered. Light bulbs popped, shrouding the room in shadow, but for the orange glow flickering in the fireplace.

“Hadley!”

The office door flung open. White light poured in from the hallway as the two policemen rushed into the room. “What the—”

Chaos. Shouting. Banging. File cabinet doors crashed open, one by one—their contents gusting into the air, fluttering around Levin. A horrible scraping whine rocketed through the room as the specters shoved the enormous desk backward. Levin jumped in time. Barely. He was inches away from being crushed against the wall along with his chair.

A silhouette dove toward her. She was knocked sideways and fell. Her back hit the floor. Air whooshed out of her lungs.

Pain. Sharp pain. A terrible brightness swelled and faded. She forced her muscles to cooperate and finally sucked in air. Opened her eyes. She was crushed beneath something. Not a specter—warm, not cold. “Hadley!” Her name, repeated several times. Then numbers.

She blinked away confusion, struggling against an impossible weight.

“Ten, eleven, twelve . . .”

Above her, Lowe’s face materialized in the shadows. She saw his lips moving. Heard the counting. And when those two things merged, a horrible sob wracked her chest.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Anger leaked away with her tears. She felt the Mori weakening. Felt their anguished protest as the chaotic frenzy in the room began quieting. And one by one, the specters faded away.

She distantly heard angry shouting. Confusion. Acrid smoke—someone was swatting out a fire. But all of that muffled sound snapped to the foreground when Lowe cried out near her ear. His weight and warmth suddenly disappeared.

She raised her head to see the policemen hauling Lowe to his feet.

“Arrest him,” Levin was shouting angrily as he wiped his hands on the front of his disheveled tuxedo. Nearby, smoke curled from a pile of books beside the fireplace.

“What charge?” one of the cops asked, his skittish gaze jumping around the room, sweeping the shadows, taking in the mounds of book carcasses and scattered broken pottery. Lines creased his tight brow. He was clearly worried the invisible tornado might start whirling again.

“What the hell do I care?” Levin said. “Destruction of property? Theft?”

The second cop kicked away a book and picked up Monk’s gun from where it had landed on the floor. “How about brandishing an unregistered gun?”

Levin bent to help Monk. “Just take him in and make sure his bail is sky high.”

“What about her?”

“Touch her and I’ll strangle you,” Lowe said through gritted teeth, struggling against the policemen’s hold.

“He threatened me,” Levin said. “You all heard it.”

As Hadley rose up on one knee, Levin jerked back, eyeing her with fear and disbelief. She’d seen the same crazed uncertainty in other faces, a dozen times over. He knew she was responsible for all this, and yet, it made no rational sense. But he was too much of a coward to ask questions. Better to blame it on something ordinary, no matter how improbable.

“Let her go,” Levin said. “I’ll contact her father later.”

Anger pricked her cheeks, but before she could respond, footsteps thundered in the hallway outside the office. More people on their way. More questions. The press was already here for the gala; the last thing she needed was to be publicly identified in the middle of all this.

She stood on trembling legs and faced Lowe. In the shifting firelight, she could see cuts on his face. A splatter of blood, dark against the white of his shirt collar. A fresh wave of hurt threatened to take her under again. The pain of betrayal and loss crisscrossed over her heart like wild brambles.

She couldn’t be in the same room with him. Not now. If she lost control again, her Mori might burn the whole damn theater down.