Dying to Know (34 page)

I do believe Mr. Tuscani is afraid of ghosts.

We entered Kel y Orchard Farm through the construction en-

trance not far from Kel y’s Dig. As we passed the site, the yellow crime scene tape flapped in the breeze and the smell of burnt

wire and still plastic hung in the air. She slowed but he motioned for her to continue up the dirt road. Several minutes later, Angel rolled the SUV to a stop in front of the main farmhouse.

“Now listen, no sil y shit, okay?” Tuscani tapped her leg with

his gun. “There’s no one around. And that means no one will hear

a loud bang.”

“Please, let me go.” Her answer was a wave of his gun. She

opened her door and slid out onto wobbly legs. “Save me” etched

across her face—but I was helpless. I needed time and luck and

both were running very short.

“Inside. You brought this on yourself.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“You will. Move.”

Angel folded her arms in defiance. “I’m not going anywhere

until you tell me …”

333

Tuscani lashed out and struck her across the face, sending her

crashing into the SUV’s fender and onto the ground. As she

started to rise, he descended on her. He grabbed her hair and

dragged her to her feet—shaking her in a vicious and violent dis-

play of control.

“Move.”

“Leave her alone.” I swung at him but struck nothing. “Doc,

help me—please, Doc!”

Nothing.

“Okay, I’m going.” A trickle of blood blossomed on her lip

and her voice was stronger than I could have imagined. “You’re a

bastard.”

He laughed and propelled her forward.

Inside the house, Tuscani navigated as though he knew every

inch of the six-thousand square feet of hardwood and stone.

Even with the covered windows shedding little light, he moved

confidently through the house. He prodded Angel through a

high-ceilinged dining room and into a great room where another

hall opened off the rear. He pushed her, twice falling onto the

dusty hardwood, into the southern wing of the house. We ended

at a narrow staircase leading up to the second floor.

“Through here.” He opened a door beneath the stairwell I

hadn’t noticed from the hall. There were crude wooden stairs

leading down into darkness. “After you.”

Angel balked and peered into the darkness. “What’s down

there?”

“Amy.”

334

sixt y-t wo

There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. No way out.

We descended the creaky, plank stairs down into total dark-

ness. A dozen stairs down, Tuscani shoved Angel forward and

she fell to her knees at the bottom. Behind us, I heard him flip a switch and two bare-wire lights hanging from the ceiling glowed.

Their light was barely enough to il uminate the room, and when

they did, my hopes of escape dwindled.

The nineteenth century cel ar was cold and damp. The floor

and wal s were stone and the ceiling was made of hand-honed

timbers that were easily four feet overhead. There was a rear cel-

lar room ahead of us, but it was dark and uninviting. We stood in

a clearing between empty wine racks and wooden shelves lining

one side of the room, and wooden boxes and packing crates

stacked on the other side. The room smelled of damp earth and

musty air.

It smelled of a dungeon—dismal, hopeless, and lifeless.

335

Angel stood up as Tuscani shoved her forward into a pile of

broken crates. She almost fel , but caught herself. She turned to-

ward him as anger and fear fought for control of her voice.

“Don’t touch me again.”

“Shut up and move back.”

“Angel, I need more time.” I searched around the room for a

plan—any plan—that might get her to safety. “But be ready to

run. The second I see an opening, go. Don’t hesitate. Don’t think.

Just run like hell when I say.”

“Okay, Tuck.” Her head dipped in a slight, terrified nod.

“What? Shut up, lady.” Tuscani stood blocking the stairs and

pointed toward the dark room off the rear of the cellar. “In

there—that room. Go on. Go in there.”

That’s when I felt them.

They were there, beyond the light, wrapped in burlap and se-

creted behind old wood planks of a broken wine rack. There was

loneliness and sorrow simmering just inside the darkness, and as

Angel stepped forward, anticipation waited for her. I went ahead

of her and stopped in the doorway. I could feel them reaching

out to me. They were there—unsure of their surroundings—dis-

turbed from their rest at Kel y’s Dig. Now, they were here, wait-

ing.

And they wanted to end it al .

“Angel, Amy and Caroline are the two young girls appearing

to me. I didn’t understand before. I think I do now.”

“Caroline?” Angel stopped, listened, and turned to Tuscani.

“Amy and Caroline are with Tuck. They’re all here, Lucca. And

336

they’ve come back to stop you. Don’t make them hurt you, Lucca.

Let me go. Let me go and they’ll let you go.”

“What?” Tuscani peered past her into the room. He prodded

her with his gun but his voice was unsteady. “Your husband’s

dead, lady. So are Amy and Caroline. They can’t hurt me and

they can’t help you. So move.”

“No, Lucca. You’re wrong. They’re here, right …”

“Stop. You know it was Nicholas.” Tuscani shoved her aside

and went to the doorway. He still didn’t venture in. “Stop your

shit and get in there.”

“Nicholas?” Angel didn’t hide her confusion. “Poor Nic?”

“He killed them. You know that. The bastard killed them

both.”

“Angel, keep him talking.” Time was precious.

She did. “Why did he kill them? Why did you kill Tuck?”

“Shut up.” Tuscani whirled around in the doorway. “Just shut

up. Get in there.”

“What happened to them?” Angel’s voice was soft, flavored

with understanding—trying to calm and draw him in. “Tell me,

please. I want to understand. I want to help.”

“No.” He shifted his weight and stepped back from the door-

way but still stared inside; wavering as though he wanted to go in but couldn’t make his feet obey. When he turned to Angel, his

face lightened and his eyes were not as dark—not as dangerous.

Perhaps he was having second thoughts about killing her. Per-

haps he was beyond that and choosing how to.

“You loved Amy,” Angel said. “Didn’t you?”

337

Then, as though he and Angel were chatting over tea, he said,

“Yes, of course, she was wonderful. She took care of me when I

was young—right here at this house. She was beautiful—and so

good to me. No one else cared. She did.”

She said, “And she loved you, too.”

“Yes, Amy was my aunt.” Tuscani took a deep breath that

seemed to cool him. “He found out. Only Caroline and I knew.

He found out about her boyfriend. But I didn’t tel .”

“He was jealous?”

“Yes.”

Angel tried soothing him. “I understand. I do. Nicholas is a

hard man. Did you see him?”

Mr. Hyde returned. “You don’t understand shit.” He slid the

G-Cleft bracelet out of his pocket and held it out in the dim light.

“He gave it to her and no one knew that—just him.”

I saw it al in my vision. It was late at night in the orchard—

right at Kel y’s Dig. A young, pretty Amy was arguing with some-

one—a man. He struck her down and Caroline tried to intervene.

They tried to tel me, to warn me about him.
Stop him. You have
to stop him
.

“Lucca, maybe I can help you.”

“Shut up.” Tuscani stuffed the bracelet back into his pants

pocket. Then, a sickening feeling ebbed into me when Lucca’s

face hardened. His eyes seemed lifeless and he smiled at Angel. I

knew that others had seen that smile—none ever lived to tell

about its meaning. “Let’s go.”

“Please, tell me …”

338

Tuscani leapt across the room, grabbed Angel’s arm, and

shoved her through the doorway. “Get them.” He followed her to

the doorway, propelling her deeper inside. He fumbled with a

switch on the wall and turned on the light at the far end of the

room.

I could feel them stronger now. They were here, confused and

scared—just like Angel and me. The difference was the girls and

I could not be hurt any more. Angel could.

The room was littered with old boxes and broken, wooden

shelving—a scary and lonely place for the girls. Hidden among

the debris was the bulky burlap bag, and I told Angel where to

find it. She freed the sack, carried it to the outer cel ar, and stood beneath the hanging light. There, she stood holding it, her face

showing the conflict between sorrow and fear.

We both knew what was in the burlap—bones.

A shutter ran through me. Whispering, fleeting voices jingled

in my head and I heard Amy’s voice. I understood.

“Angel, it’s going to be okay.”

She careful y hefted the bag. “Tuck, I’m scared.”

“Tuck again? Stop that.” Tuscani pointed his gun at her and

then gestured at the ground. “Lay it there, on the ground. Get

back—step away.”

“Lucca,” she said, easing toward the stairs with the sack

clutched toward him. “Why did you kill Tuck—why my hus-

band?”

“Put them down and back away. Do it.” When she hesitated,

he lunged and grabbed the burlap bag from her grasp. He raised

the gun to strike her, but when she withdrew, he stopped and set

339

the bag on the floor at his feet. “I had nothing to do with your

husband. It’s Nicholas I came for.”

Angel inched toward the stairs. “All right, Lucca. You have

Amy now.”

He knelt down beside the burlap bag of bones. He was lost in

memories, back in another time—a time when Amy and Caro-

line were alive and caring for him. His face softened. His arm

dropped to his side, the gun resting on his knee. He started to

smile.

Now.

I reached up and grabbed the overhead light’s bare wire dan-

gling above my head. The surge was instant. Current filled me—

invigorated me—burned through me like fire chasing a gunpow-

der fuse. It burst up my fingers into my entire being. It raged and built, spreading through me like a wildfire. Its power exploded in my head and I knew it was time to end this.

“Now, Angel!”

Angel crashed into Tuscani, shoving him off balance. She

struck a violent kick at his groin. She missed, but the blow

smashed his thigh and sent him backwards with a sharp cry. As

he tumbled back, she grabbed the burlap bag at her feet. With

every ounce of strength, she swung it in a wide arc and smashed

it into his head. He faltered sideways and crumbled onto the

ground.

“Go,” I yelled and she bolted for the stairs. “Run.”

Tuscani recovered too quickly and raised his gun, leveling it

the instant she hit the first stair. His finger descended on the trigger.

340

“No, no.” I grabbed the electric wire again. The lightning

surged. “Come on tough guy, shoot me.”

He was on one knee. His gun arm was outstretched, tracing

Angel’s path. His head turned toward the light swinging over-

head but his eyes were riveted on me. Lucca Tuscani was staring

right at me and he remembered. Terror exploded in his eyes. The

familiar face of a man struck him—a dead man—from a high

school parking lot fighting him in the rain.

“What the hell …” his voice cracked but his eyes were steady

and staring. “You … Jesus Christ …”

“No, just me—boo.”

Angel’s feet echoed off the hardwood above us and I knew she

was widening her escape. “Go, baby, go.”

Tuscani turned the gun on me now. With uncertain, shaky

movements, he stood and backed away until he was flat against

the cellar wall. As the lightning faded inside me, I saw him

straining to find me in the dim cel ar light. I hadn’t moved, but

he could no longer see me. He searched the cel ar, one squinting

eyeful at a time—trying to convince himself that I was there;

praying, no doubt, that I wasn’t.

He never fired a shot.

341

sixt y-three

“Tuck?” Angel’s voice was a whisper, but that’s all it took for

me to find her. “Please, come to me.”

“I’m here babe.”

She was crouched behind an antique armoire in a second

floor room that overlooked the rear courtyard. While making

herself the smallest target she could, she scanned the courtyard

through the window in short, seconds-long glances from con-

cealment. On her third snapshot, she recoiled.

“He’s back there.”

Tuscani had done as she hoped—run from the basement and

out of the house. He’d assumed she was making her escape, try-

ing to get as far from the house as possible. She hadn’t, and in-

stead took refuge on the second floor.

“Stay hidden. I’ll watch him and when he’s a safe distance

away, you run. ”

342

The courtyard separated the farmhouse’s rear veranda from

the servant’s cottage and Tuscani was weaving and bobbing

through it, searching for Angel. His gun was out and ready for

the kill. He stopped beside the stone wall that encircled the

courtyard and crouched low, listening and watching the servant’s

cottage for any sign Angel was inside. He moved like a well-sea-