Contents (109)
- Contents
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- 10
- 11
- 12
- 13
- 14
- 15
- 16
- 17
- 18
- 19
- 20
- 21
- 22
- 23
- 24
- 25
- 26
- 27
- 28
- 29
- 30
- 31
- 32
- 33
- 34
- 35
- 36
- 37
- 38
- 39
- 40
- 41
- 42
- 43
- 44
- 45
- 46
- 47
- 48
- 49
- 50
- 51
- 52
- 53
- 54
- 55
- 56
- 57
- 58
- 59
- 60
- 61
- 62
- 63
- 64
- 65
- 66
- 67
- 68
- 69
- 70
- 71
- 72
- 73
- 74
- 75
- 76
- 77
- 78
- 79
- 80
- 81
- 82
- 83
- 84
- 85
- 86
- 87
- 88
- 89
- 90
- 91
- 92
- 93
- 94
- 95
- 96
- 97
- 98
- 99
- The South of France
- Author’s Note
- Reading Group Guide
- A Conversation with the Author
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
98
The intruder’s silhouette had taken solid form, the man who had attacked Smith and me in the park. “The gate was easy to pick,” he said, a gun in his hand. “You should warn your rich neighbors.”
Baine had righted himself and was rubbing his jaw. The Ed Brown Compact had flown out of his hand after firing and lay in a corner of the vault like a small creature playing possum.
Alex, flattened against a wall, held the mangled Manet painting against her chest like a shield.
“Are you okay?” I asked, and she nodded, though she looked pale and unsteady.
The intruder glanced at the two Mona Lisa paintings, then at Baine. “I am the one who sent you the second painting. I work for you, or for your middleman, that fool you sent to kill me.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Baine said.
The intruder smiled, lips pulled back to expose his small, stained teeth. “Your middleman is dead, but I have his cell phone, with your number on it. I do not think you want to play games with me.”
Baine gave a bored shrug. “How much do you want?”
“Not money,” he said.
“What else is there? Art?”
“I am here for your life.” He took a step, thrust the gun into Baine’s gut hard enough to make him double over.
As he did, I lunged for the Ed Brown, got it, and aimed it at the intruder.
“You shoot me and I shoot this pig,” he said, his weapon still aimed at Baine. “But I am used to shooting and you are not. I will manage one more shot, and you will die too.”
I cocked the gun.
Alex cried out, “Luke…no!”
The intruder aimed his gun.
Baine lunged, grabbing hold of the guy’s arm. Baine lunged, grabbing hold of the guy’s arm, but the guy fired, once, twice, and Baine fell. But the gun fell too, just enough time for me to fire, and I did, again and again, until the gun was out of bullets.
It was only then that time normalized and I could see what had happened: Baine in a corner gripping his shoulder, the intruder on the floor, blood leaching out of his head and chest, Alex against the wall, her eyes shut tight. A moment later, she dropped the Manet painting, toppled forward, and I raced to catch her.
I saw it now. A bullet had torn through her sweater, a spot of dark maroon spreading.
“Oh no! God no!” Baine cried, crawling toward her.
“It was…your bullet,” she said. “You…who killed me, Father.”
“No…no… I never would have done it… It was just a threat…a game.”
“A game?” Alex laughed, a bubble of blood bursting at her lips. “Go to…hell.”
Baine curled up in the corner, clutched his shoulder, and whimpered.
I got my arms around Alex, noticed for the first time that I’d been hit, a sleeve of my blue shirt streaked with blood, but I hardly felt it and didn’t care. I held Alex, told her not to talk, that she’d be okay.