The Snow Garden (53 page)

     He slumped back against the doors and caught his breath, scanning the darkness of the studio for the answering machine’s blinking red light. Just inside the door, blocks of microcrystalline wax stood in stacks. Michael worked in wax because it was cohesive and lightweight, and most important, it didn’t produce any dust. But even a small splash of water, less dense than the wax, could permeate the block’s surface and result in an explosive eruption of wax and steam, which is why all the sculptures required a protective coating after they dried, and also explained why Michael had stacked the blocks in the opposite corner from the utility sink.

     Randall spotted the machine’s blinking red light on the worktable. He bent forward over the table and the thick fabric of what had to be Michael’s smock brushed his head from where it hung from its hook. He pushed the number pad sticky, under his fingers. He almost let out a sigh of relief when he heard the first ring.

     And then it was matched by a high-pitched chirping sound directly outside the studio doors.

     Randall leapt back, almost pulling the phone out of its socket. When he knocked the smock from its hook, navy blue buttons hit the floor at his feet. He stared down at Jesse’s pea coat as the double doors slid open.

Kathryn bent forward over the desk, which made the doorman recoil, one hand clamped to the phone. Since he had already refused to call up to the penthouse, she guessed he was going to call the police.

     “How many times do I have to say it’s an emergency?” she asked.

     “It’s also two in the morning,” the doorman sputtered.

     Kathryn shot a glance out the lobby windows. Behind the wheel of his Jeep, Tim watched the proceedings with an arm bent on top of the steering wheel, gnawing at a thumbnail, probably ready to flip out and insist for the hundredth time that they should go to One Police Plaza.

     “Is there any reason this can’t wait until morning?” the doorman asked.

     Fighting panic, Kathryn grasped at the hard lump of Tim’s .25-caliber semi-automatic pistol in her inside jacket pocket. Tim must have seen her touch it, because she heard the Jeep’s door pop open.

     “Does that go to his phone?” Kathryn demanded.

     “I’m sorry.”

     “When you call his apartment, does it go through his phone line?”

     The doorman nodded.

     “If he’s asleep, I can just leave a message.”

     “Ma’am ...”

     Tim threw the lobby doors open, but when he saw Kathryn didn’t have the gun in her hand, he stopped in mid-step. “Who’s he?” the doorman asked. Tim approached the desk and extended three crumpled twenties in one fist.

     After barely a second’s pause, the doormen took them and dialed. “Who should I say you are?” he asked pleasantly.

     Kathryn told him what to say and the doorman held the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he waited. “He’s not answering,” the doorman said, then abruptly went stiff and gripped the phone harder. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Price, but there’s a young woman down here and she claims it’s an emergency.” He shot her one final reproachful look before continuing. “Her name is Pamela Milford and apparently she has your scarf.”    
^s

     The doorman hung up.

     “Wait!” Kathryn protested.

     “It was his machine.” He folded his arms over his chest. “If either of you has an American Express you’re willing to let go of, maybe I’ll consider going up there.”

     “Come on, Kathryn.” Tim’s hand gripped her shoulder, and she shrugged it off. The phone behind the desk rang.

     “Yes. .. I’m so sorry... I see. Will do. Thank you so much, Mr. Price.” He hung up, face furled with anger. “Go on up, Miss Milford.” 

     Kathryn moved for the elevators. Tim called, “If you’re not down in fifteen minutes, I’m calling the cops.”

     “Fuck that. Just pull the goddamn fire alarm.”

     She pulled herself free from his grip and headed for the elevators.

“YOU MUST BE KATHRYN.”

     “Who else?”

     “Someone with a rather cruel sense of humor.”

     Without leaving the elevator, Kathryn cocked her head at Michael Price, puffed her cheeks and stuck out her bottom lip. The guy was a bloated horror. Worse, it looked as if his muscles had been pumped up with hot air. When he saw the sarcastic sympathy on her face, Skeletor backed up several steps, gesturing for her to enter.

     With one hand against her jacket pocket, she stepped out of the elevator, moving quickly into center of the vast, loftlike space without allowing the man out of her line of sight. Michael’s expression was fixed. “Nice place,” she said.

     Michael nodded as he sized Kathryn up, as if she were there for a job interview. “You’re looking for Randall,” he said.

     “Is he around?”

     “No.”

     “Any idea where he might be?”

     “Unfortunately, no.”

     Kathryn lifted her eyebrows to indicate she was listening. Michael dug his hands into both pockets of his smock, bowing his head as he moved between her and the open elevator doors. She felt a surge of relief when he stepped out of the only path between her and the exit.

     “Apparently, his roommate managed to save up a good bit of cash while he was up at school. And extended an offer that Randall couldn’t refuse. It seems this young man has Randall in quite a thrall. Well, you probably know him.” He turned. “Jesse?”

     She met his gaze. “I do. He’s gorgeous. Beautiful, really.”

     Michael heard the venom in her words and his eyes flickered. 

     “Where did they run off to?” she asked.

     “According to the caller ID, Randall made the call from the Boston airport.”

     Kathryn managed a smile, which she felt turn into a snarl. “Nice of him to tell you about the money Jesse saved up. Just in case you were worried about his financial situation.”

     Michael looked at her hard. “I don't follow ...”

     “It’s all very confusing, isn’t it? But I’m relieved. You see, Jesse just vanished without a trace right after the break. And I had all sorts of horrible possibilities running through my head. And then I remembered the power went out for a whole day. I mean,
who knows
who could have just waltzed right into the dorm?” Kathryn shook her head theatrically at the implied horror of it all. One arm drifted to her side, the other inside the flap of her jacket. She heard her pulse in her ears. “Oh, and the other thing about the cash. I guess that explains why Jesse left behind a thousand-dollar laptop.”

     Michael’s brow creased, but she continued.

     “I guess you figured that because Randall was good at lying to everyone else, why couldn’t he have just fibbed to you? It would have come naturally, wouldn’t it? Now that he was so far away from you. So you didn’t believe him when he said he was spending Thanksgiving at Eberman’s house, did you? You went to Atherton, waited outside the dorm. And then the power went out and you figured out you could just go right inside. And when you actually laid eyes on Randall’s roommate—God, I’ll bet jealousy wasn’t even the word, was it? And Randall had never mentioned him once, had he?”

     Her words were arrows, but she bet they were piercing his pride and not his heart. Michael had slowly begun to close the distance between them, so she removed the pistol from her pocket and leveled it on him. He stopped and eyed the gun in her hand.

     “You know about the money Jesse saved up because you threw it away. And you left the computer behind because you didn’t know it was there. And when you came up with your big plan to ruin Eric Eberman’s life, you made one mistake.”

     “I didn’t come up with the plan on my own, but go ahead.” 

     Sarcasm had left her and she was forced to draw a breath, seeing that her previously steady grip on the pistol had started to tremble. She tensed her arm.

     “You didn’t expect anyone to love him. And you didn’t expect anyone to miss him.”

     “Who is it that you love?” Michael asked with unnerving calm. 

     “The man he became when he got away from you.”

     “In the three years before I saved him from the streets, he was a male prostitute,” Michael remarked. “And the only way he could live was by being anything to anyone. I would hate to think you were just another customer.”

     “The major difference would be that I never had to buy him.” 

     Michael rolled his eyes. “Pseudo-intellectual fortune-cookie wisdom. Is this the kind of psychobabble Atherton is filling its students’ heads with these days? You were new, Kathryn. Fresh meat. What few friends the boy actually had he killed when he decided to toss debris from a junkyard across the railroad tracks next to his house. Don’t kid yourself. Once the novelty of having a friend wore off, he would have run through you as quickly as he ran through me. And don’t ruin your own life for him. Put that little toy away before I have to point out how absurd you look.”

     Behind her, metal slammed against metal, followed by a resonant crash. She jerked, but didn’t turn. Michael jumped, and his eyes darted over her shoulder to the sound’s source. As if he’d been caught stealing, he hardened his pose and returned his gaze to her. “Randall spoke highly of you. Don’t ruin that.”

     “Get Randall now.”

     “Guests don’t give orders.”

     “Now! If I’m not out of here in ten minutes with
him,
there’s a guy downstairs whose going to call the cops.”

     “And what is he going to tell them?”

     “He’ll tell them anything he feels like!” Kathryn shouted.

     Michael’s eyes bolted down to her foot. She managed a quick glance without moving her head. Water ran in a thin rivulet between the marble tiles. Michael’s face whitened at the sight of it. She gripped the gun harder.

     “And if they don’t show up fast enough he’ll pull the goddamn fire alarm. And once they get here, I’ll tell them about how you murdered Pamela Milford for a fucking scarf!”

     Michael’s veneer of composure vanished. But it wasn’t the mention of murder that caused it. He was horrorstruck by something behind her. When she glanced down she saw that the water had spilled out of the grouting, sliding in a thin, advancing sheet toward Michael’s planted feet.

     Breathing rapidly, Michael lifted his eyes to hers. All pretense had been replaced by cold hatred.

     “Is he dead?”

     “Careful,” Michael whispered.

     “Is
he dead
?”
she screamed.

     But Michael just shook his head, his face like that of a tired, swollen little boy, as if waiting for her to fire the first bullet, which in her building rage she felt like doing. She was startled by the sudden cold tongues of water she felt leaking through the toes of her boots. Everything in her wanted to turn around, but she didn’t dare.

     “Water and wax don’t mix.”

    
“
What
?”

     Michael vaulted to her, seizing her gun hand by the wrist.

     She pulled the trigger, saw the bullet tear into his thigh, shred his blue jeans, and emit a red tuft. He hit the wet marble knees first, and suddenly Kathryn’s entire world tilted. She heard what sounded like the explosion of a giant balloon, followed by a blast of air in the seconds before splintered-wood-turned-to-shrapnel tore a strip from the sleeve of her coat. Michael wouldn’t release her wrist, so she fired again. The bullet hit marble and a geyser of white dust shot up between them.

     His hands crossed over his face, he fell over backward, and she managed to right herself, finding her aim. Dizzy, she glanced toward the explosion’s source. It had punched through a set of double doors, leaving splintered holes in the darkness. Water gushed from underneath the doors. Before she had time to focus on Michael, there was a second, larger explosion that sent her flying sideways over one leg. Plate glass shattered.

     She hit the floor on her back, blinking madly and holding the gun to her chest. Flying plywood slammed into the chandelier overhead. Chunks of ceramic punched her chest. Dust clouded her vision, coating her lips even as she spit. Her hands were clasped, but they were lighter. She’d lost the gun.

     Behind and above her, she heard a hollow impact. She barely had time to figure out that it didn’t sound right. She propped herself up, eyes scanning the floor. Michael was nowhere in sight. She turned her head, about to call out for Randall, when she saw the dining table tilting like a scale as a massive chunk of tiled ceramic slid down its length. She fell into a half crouch as the chunk hit the marble in front of her, but before she could stand, the tabletop flipped and slammed into her back, driving her face into the marble and drawing in blackness at the edges of her vision.

     Her head spun as she fought for consciousness. She hadn’t felt her legs go lax, but now they were limp and pressed to the floor. Spitting water from her nostrils, she arched her back; the table slid several inches down and stopped. She let out a groan that was both rage and fear, but it forced her mouth back to the marble. Michael could kill her at any second and she wouldn’t be able to fight. Trying to calm herself, she took several, slow deep breaths, gathering strength in the pit of her stomach. She gnashed her teeth, tensed both fists, and threw herself upward.

     The table slid to the right, its edge digging into her shoulder before it tipped, flattening her right arm against the floor. Pain burned through her. She pulled her arm out, tearing her sleeve, and rolled over onto her back, drawing one bloody wrist to her chest and clamping the flowing wound with the other hand.

     Overhead, the chandelier swayed gently. One shattered tentacle dangled its broken light bulbs. She got to her knees, shooting panicked glances in every direction.

     No gun. No Michael.

     On her feet, she sloshed through the water toward the shattered double doors. Snow drifted through the broken plate-glass windows, landing on the flotsam covering the floor.