Art's Blood (43 page)

Okay, so maybe Rose’s death was related to Marvin’s past, as everyone assumes. Set that aside: why would Kyra want to kill Boz?

And how could she have gotten that big hulking guy into the car in the crusher in the first place?
The answer presented itself immediately.
Of course, that drug Phillip mentioned— Ro-something. Oh god.

She stood and walked over to try the door again, hoping irrationally that it would open. She hammered at the unyielding metal surface and called out but quickly abandoned the frustrating enterprise.

Think, Elizabeth. Surely you can think of something.
Scenarios from long-forgotten books and movies assailed her busy mind.
Find a pointed tool and scrape at the mortar in the bricks till you can loosen enough to crawl through the hole into the next room. Didn’t Jack and Stephen do that in one of the O’Brian books? Or was that
The Count of Monte Cristo?
And if that room also has a locked door, what then? You idiot, it would take days! Anyway, someone will come along soon…won’t they?

She inspected the door hinges.
Could I maybe lift the door off?
She knew it was possible, had watched a friend do it when locked out of her house. But that had been a small, light, wooden door. This one was large and made of metal. Furthermore, the hinges were obscured by many coats of paint. Still, it was worth a try.

She rummaged through the odds and ends piled in the back of the room, hoping for a hammer and a screwdriver, but neither was to be found. A canvas-stretching tool seemed to offer some possibility as a hammer, and she picked up a sturdy-looking artist’s brush to take the place of the screwdriver. Returning to the door, she positioned her implements as she had seen her friend do and tried to tap out the long pin that held the door to the frame.

The brush’s wooden shaft splintered on her second blow. “Shit!” said Elizabeth and returned to sifting through the clutter of Kyra’s studio.

She pounced on a pair of long scissors lying in a box of fabric scraps. At least they were metal and pointed. A weapon of sorts, if it came to that. She dug through the fabric
— are there sheets in here? I could tie them together and use that to get down to the ground…. I guess I could….
But the scraps were only small bits of lightweight material, totally unsuited for knotting to one another. Glancing again at the distance to the ground, she felt relieved.

At the end of her diligent search she had assembled a pathetic collection of potential weapons and/or useful objects on the brocade-covered table: the scissors, a palette knife, the stretching tool
(Bang, bang, Maxwell’s silver hammer,
she thought, imagining herself holding off an assailant with the ridiculous object). The cut-crystal vase was still there, its pathetic bouquet of dead roses dropping petals on the cloth, a nasty concentration of greenish water at the vase’s bottom. The Swiss Army knife from her purse and a can of fluorescent paint completed the array. She had picked up the paint can, vaguely remembering some far-fetched scene employing a spray can of some sort as an explosive device. She looked over this unpromising assembly and sank into the chair, shaking her head at her foolishness.

If you had just done like Ben and Laurel suggested last year and had gotten a cell phone, you’d be out of here already.

As she sat there wondering what to do, she heard indistinct sounds in the hallway. It seemed to be the same soft footsteps that had ignored her pleas before, so she didn’t move. The footsteps stopped before the door and then there was no sound but the rushing of blood in her ears.

Catching sight of the can of paint, she had a sudden inspiration. She took the can and went to the door, calling out in a loud voice, “Open the door, please!” Hammering on the door to make as much noise as possible, she used her other hand to shake the can vigorously, then dropped to her knees and sent a jet of bright acid green fluorescent paint under the door. There was a muffled exclamation and the unknown lurker retreated as before.

When I get out of this place, I’ll know them by their shoes.
The thought was not comforting.
Whenever that is. If they’re still around. And then what, Elizabeth? What exactly would you do?

Stricken by an overwhelming sensation of helplessness, she tossed the now empty spray can across the room. It hit the wall and let out a brief flatulent hiss and a last green dribble. At a loss for what to do next, she snatched up the power control that sat atop the television set, pointed it at the glossy red rectangle of the door, and intoned, “Open Sesame.”

The door didn’t move, but the TV screen lit up and a homemade video began to play, resuming soundlessly in midtape.

“Oh my god…” Elizabeth stood transfixed as the scenes faded rapidly one into another. The settings changed, as did the actors, with the exception of one. The plot stayed the same: Kyra, naked and entwined with Boz, with Aidan, with several other unidentified men, and then with Ben. “Oh my god. I don’t need to see this.”

Elizabeth raised the control to switch off the power but at that moment the X-rated scenes were replaced by the most innocuous of home movie shots: Kyra and Lily Gordon drinking tea and smiling at each other, Marvin Peterson and Kimmie, his arm around her and both of them beaming proudly at a tiny object that Kimmie held out to the camera. The shot zoomed in to reveal a little green and white plastic oblong, pinched gingerly in her fingers. There were two little openings near the center, each displaying a vertical purple line. “It’s the mask in the picture. But it’s not a mask; it must be the pregnancy test— Kimmie said that her test had two purple stripes— oh shit!”

T
HE SCENES SHIFTED BACK.
A
T FIRST
E
LIZABETH
thought that the tape was a loop and that she was seeing the same shots of Kyra and her various lovers, but then she realized that the settings were different. Here were Kyra and Boz in the gutted interior of a car. Kyra was naked but Boz was wearing a black shirt and trousers. He had a bottle of what looked like vodka in one hand and was attempting to undo his zipper with the other. He was obviously very drunk, but he drained the bottle he was holding and reached out for the one Kyra offered him.

He raised the bottle to the camera, which had evidently been propped on the dashboard of the car, and his red boot came up and knocked the camera askew. The picture now showed a shot of the passenger-side window. Just beyond the window was a dark wall. Elizabeth wound back the tape, then paused it. Yes, a solid wall could be seen a little way beyond the rear window, as well as beyond the driver’s-side window. She had no doubt that not only was she seeing the interior of the car Boz had died in, she was also seeing the events that immediately preceded his death.

“That’s how she did it,” Elizabeth whispered. “Probably suggested that the car Rafiq had left in the crusher would be an artistic spot to film another little ‘performance piece.’ But I seriously doubt if he was up to performing. Another minute or so and he’d be passed out. And then she could shoot him, get herself out of the car, and turn on the crusher.”

And if she’s capable of that, she could…
She realized that she
had
to get out, to call Phillip. Ben’s truck wasn’t here but where
was
Ben? The thought of her nephew as the next victim staggered her for a moment, then she felt herself caught up by a wave of adrenaline. She scanned the room once again, seeking inspiration. The light from the windows was growing dim. Once it was dark, escape would be that much more difficult. Her eyes fell on the scissors and on the sturdy brocade covering the table and puddling on the floor.

Ten minutes of dogged sawing and hacking reduced the once beautiful pale green brocade to a pile of wide strips. Elizabeth began knotting the lengths together— right over left and under, left over right and under— using the square knot learned forty-some years ago to tie her yellow Girl Scout scarf.

When all the strips had been joined, she tossed one end of the improvised rope out the window and wrapped the other around the upright between two of the windows. She gave the mooring a dubious look and took another turn, tying it off in a ragged series of square knots till the farther end of the rope dangled above the ground—
how
far above, she couldn’t judge.

Slowly and deliberately she clambered up onto the windowsill. Her hands were damp with sweat but the brocade rope was reassuringly rough and solid-feeling. A downward look made her dizzy and set her head to swimming.
Oh, shit. I don’t know if I can do this. What if the knots don’t hold? What if I lose my hold on the rope? What if—

The agonizing train of suppositions was cut short by the sight of a trickle of clear liquid oozing into the room under the door. The trickle became a stream; the stream became a flood. Her nostrils were assailed by the choking fumes of gasoline and she began to cough. The sudden rasp of a match on a box erased all doubts from her mind.

As the tide of inflammable liquid surged toward the window wall, Elizabeth thought she glimpsed a flicker of blue flame near the door. Cursing…praying…she didn’t know which, Elizabeth grasped the knotted strips of brocade and stood up.

Again…and again…and yet again, the scratching of a match. Her eyes were watering and she realized that she was growing light-headed from the fumes.

“Now!” she whispered and with a gut-wrenching leap of faith she stepped into the void, abandoning herself to fate. Leaning back, all of her weight on the hastily cobbled rope, she began, slowly, tentatively to walk herself down the back wall of the Candlestation, struggling to keep her shoes in contact with the uneven bricks.

The top of her head had just dipped below the windowsill when she heard the angry whoosh of the lighted fuel. A jet of flames shot out of the window, only inches above her head; she started, then ducked to avoid the searing heat and her running shoes slid on the wall. Instantly the flames subsided and she repositioned her feet on the crumbling bricks. Her arms were aching and her breath was coming fast but she continued her measured descent into the gloom below.

When she reached the rope’s end, she dangled there briefly. The three- or four-foot drop was nothing, but she prayed that she wouldn’t land awkwardly and sprain an ankle.

Again throwing herself on the mercy of fate, she let go and landed with a soft splat on the muddy ground. Her feet squelched in the mud and she allowed herself to go limp and roll. She lay there on her side scarcely daring to breathe.
Nothing broken, nothing even twisted. Time to move!

Quickly, Elizabeth picked herself up and hurried toward the parking lot. Her arms were trembling and her heart was still pounding as she crept quietly around the corner of the vast, dark building. Just ahead, in the flooded parking lot, was her jeep. A single security light’s cold glow glittered on the water’s surface, revealing an anonymous-looking blue sedan, flanked by an old rusting pickup. The only other vehicles were Kyra’s sports car and two, almost identical white SUVs. The plate of the nearer one read “MP #1.”

I need to go for help— get to a phone. I can’t go back in there. Someone just tried to kill me.
She peered through the twilight but saw no one. Pulling her car keys from her pocket, she dashed for the jeep, splashing recklessly through the shallow water and clicking the door opener as she approached. She wrenched open the door and hurled herself into the driver’s seat, pulled the door shut, and clicked the lock. Only then did she exhale fully, sending up a general prayer of thanksgiving to Whoever might be listening.

She turned the key, exulting as the engine roared into life, slammed the gearshift to reverse, and began to back out.

Thirty seconds later the engine died. She turned the ignition switch again and again; the engine’s only response was a futile, dying
uggha-uggha-uggh.

“Goddammit all to hell!” Pounding on the steering wheel did no good. She grabbed the flashlight from between the seats. For a mercy, its battery was new and the strong beam of light reassured her. She pulled the handle to pop the hood and got out of the car, first scanning the parking lot to be sure that she was still alone.

The engine looked much as it always did— mysterious. She had been hoping for some obvious sign— loosened wires, whatever. Something that would shout, “Put me back and the car will go again.”

But there was no sign and it would not go. She looked around for inspiration. The Candlestation lay at the far end of the River District, and the nearest occupied buildings were almost a mile down a dark, lonely road. Laurel had told her that the District was considered safe by day, but that few of the area’s tenants biked or walked along the roads at night. There had been incidents…. Her best hope, she decided, was to reenter the building. She needed to find a telephone.

Elizabeth started for the door at the far end of the building, hoping to avoid whoever it was that had locked her in the room and set the gasoline on fire.
Kyra’s in there and her father.
She studied the other cars parked by her useless jeep. The second white SUV— Buckley? Aidan? Whatever the answer, someone dangerous was in the mazelike building. If she could just go unnoticed long enough to find a telephone.

The farther door stood open and she went quietly up the steps and slipped into the building once again. This part of the Candlestation seemed in slightly better repair than the other end, but the halls were dark and nowhere could she find a switch to turn on the single bulbs placed at wide intervals on the ceiling. There were many studios— but all the doors were closed and locked. Her flashlight illuminated a poster on the wall, announcing a festival at The Wedge, complete with beer and fire dancers. The date was Friday, September 30. The party was evidently going on at that minute— accounting for the lack of people in the studios.