Page 141 of Homeport

The hand that wrote began to shake, used the pen like a blade to stab at the page in the diary, viciously, until the room was full of ragged breathing. Gradually all movement stopped, and the breathing became slow and deep and even, almost trancelike.

Control was slipping, sliding out of those competent fingers, leaking out of that strong and calculating mind. But it could still be wrenched back. The effort was painful, but it could still be done.

This is only a reprieve, a few weeks in the eye of the storm. I’ll find a way to make her pay, to make them all pay for what was denied me. The Dark Lady is still mine. We’ve killed together.

Miranda has the forgery. It’s the only explanation. The police don’t have the weapon. How unlike her, how bold of her to go to Florence, to find a way to steal the bronze. I hadn’t thought such actions were in her nature. So I didn’t anticipate, didn’t add the possibility into the equation.

I won’t make that mistake again.

Did she stand and stare down at Giovanni? Was there horror and fear in her eyes? Oh, I hope so. Is fear dogging her still, like a baying hound snapping at her heels?

It is, I know it is. She ran back to Maine. Does she look nervously over her shoulder even as she strides down the hallowed halls of the Institute? Does she know, somewhere inside, that her time is short?

Let her have her reprieve, let her bask in the power she’s done nothing to earn. It will be all the sweeter when she’s stripped of it once and for all.

I’d never planned to take her life as well. But plans change.

When she’s dead, her reputation devoured by scandal, I’ll weep at her grave. They will be tears of triumph.

twenty-four

The false moustache itched and was probably unnecessary. As were the contacts that changed his eyes from brown to an indistinct hazel and the long blond wig he’d fashioned into a streaming ponytail. His face and any exposed skin had been carefully lightened, toning down the gold hue to the pale and pasty complexion of a man much happier out of the sun.

Three earrings glittered on his right earlobe, wire-framed glasses with tiny round rosy lenses were perched on his nose. He rather liked the bloom they gave everything.

He’d chosen his wardrobe with care. Tight, pegged red pants, a saffron silk shirt with flowing sleeves, black patent leather boots with small heels.

After all, he didn’t want to be subtle.

He looked like a desperately fashionable, fanatically artsy type just skirting the edge of reasonable taste. He’d seen enough of the breed in his career to know the right moves, the right speech patterns.

He checked his face in the rearview mirror of the mid-sized sedan he’d chosen from Rent-A-Wreck. The car hadn’t been a pleasure to drive, but it had gotten him the sixty-odd miles to Pine State Foundry. He had hopes it would get him back to the coast when he was finished.

He took his cheap, scarred faux-leather portfolio case out of the car with him. Inside were dozens of sketches—most of which he’d borrowed, so to speak, from Miranda.

The forgery of the David had to have been cast somewhere, he thought. Somewhere, due to time constraints, locally. And this was the closest foundry to the Institute. The one, his quick search of records indicated, the staff and students used habitually.

He took out a roll of peppermints and began chewing one as he studied the foundry. The place was a scar on the hillside, he decided. Ugly brick and metal jagging up, spreading out, with towers puffing smoke. He wondered how closely they skirted EPA regulations, then reminded himself that wasn’t his problem, or his mission.

Tossing his ponytail behind his back, he slung the strap of the portfolio over his shoulder and headed in the direction of a low metal building with dusty windows.

In the heeled boots, adding a little swish was a matter of course.

Inside was a long counter with metal shelves behind, stuffed with fat ring binders, plastic tubs filled with hooks and screws, and large metal objects that defied description. At the counter on a high stool, a woman sat paging through a copy of Good Housekeeping.

She glanced up at Ryan. Her eyebrows shot up instantly, her gaze skimmed up and down. The slight smirk wasn’t quite disguised. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m Francis Kowowski, a student at the New England Institute of Art History.”

Her tongue was in her cheek now. She caught the scent of him and thought of poppies. For God’s sake, what kind of man wanted to smell like poppies? “Is that so?”

“Yes.” He moved forward, letting eagerness come into his eyes. “Several of my classmates have had bronzes cast here. That’s my art. I’m a sculptor. I’ve just transferred to the Institute.”

“Aren’t you a little old to be a student?”

He worked up a flush. “I’ve only recently been able to afford to pursue . . . Financially, you see.” He looked miserable, embarrassed, and touched the clerk’s heart.

“Yeah, it’s rough. You got something you want cast?”

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