The Monet Murders

disgusted at where my thoughts were taking me. Those same hands could heal. Had healed. So what had gone horribly wrong in Morgan’s life? When had his obsessive need to possess works of art morphed into the need to possess Ilona? The perfect woman, a work of art in her own right. At least on the surface.

From what sounded like a few hundred yards in the distance, I could hear him swashbuckle his way through the undergrowth. No finesse there. No careful stitching around a damaged heart. He was out for blood. Mine. And didn’t care if I heard him coming. What was he doing? Trying to flush out his game?

I wrapped my arms around my body to still the trembling. If only I had my phone, I could call for help. If only I had sensible shoes, I could run. If only pigs could fly, they’d be airplanes.

I needed a plan…okay…five minutes without Morgan thrashing about and I’d make a dash for it. But in which direction? Of the four points on the compass, three would lead me out of here, one would not. If I walked in as straight a line as possible, I had a seventy-five percent chance of hitting a house sooner or later, or getting back to the road. But in darting from tree to tree, I’d lost my bearings. Behind the acre-wide strip of developed lawns and gardens edging the road, the land gave way to subtropical jungle…like this untamed parcel. If I set off in the wrong direction, I could wander deep into the wild and be lost with no one the wiser. The thought made me shudder.

I squelched the rising fear and told myself to think. The Gulf lay to the west. The direction that led out of the woods. West, then. But where the hell was west? I should have listened to my father years ago and joined the Girl Scouts. Too late for that, but like every school kid, I knew the sun set in the west. So…I’d step out from this undergrowth, look at the sky and follow the direction of the sun.

Right.

I peered at my watch. Three more minutes.

The rain began as quiet as a whisper. If every pore in my body hadn’t been on sonar alert, I wouldn’t have heard a thing. Then the whispering picked up. Plink. Plink.

Boom! A streak of lightning flashed across the sky, followed by a clap of thunder that practically split my eardrums. A second later, the sky pulled out all its stops, unleashing everything it had.

I crouched in a tight ball, sheltered from the worst of the deluge but still, in no time, rain soaked my hair to the scalp and my wet clothes clung like a Hooters outfit.

I didn’t even care. Where the hell was west, anyway?

My five-minute plan turned into a half hour. Decision time. Stay here and be mosquito food or make a break for it. Even in bare feet, I could move fast. I was younger than Morgan. Fleeter. And judging from his harsh breathing of a while ago, I had more stamina than he. So if I could keep him at arm’s length, I had a chance-if I turned in any direction but east. A big if.

Problem was, I had no idea where Morgan might be. Lost, too? Or close by, waiting to pounce the moment he spotted me? Could be, but I’d have to risk it. If I stayed huddled here much longer, I wouldn’t be able to move.

I picked up the stilettos, and brushing the scruffy fronds aside, I stood, exposing myself to view. Nearby, a squirrel, as agile as Tarzan, leaped from branch to branch, soaring from one tree to another. Way to go! If only I could do the same, instead of standing on bug-bitten legs clutching a shoe in each fist.

An eerie quiet had replaced the angry slapping of palm fronds. Even the jay had shut up. Maybe Morgan had fled. No, I immediately dismissed that idea. Not a chance he’d leave before he caught me or until I escaped, whichever came first. He was hiding like I was, waiting for me to make the first move.

That he would kill me if he could I had not the slightest doubt. But if given the chance, would I kill him?

Not if I could. If I had to.

Yeah, if I had to.

Arms raised overhead, I arched my back then stretched my hamstrings. No more hiding. No more crouching. But which way to run? I picked a card. That way. Whether it was the fatal east or not, I couldn’t tell with the sky so overcast. I’d just have to chance it.

From behind me, a hiss as subtle as a snake’s glide.

I gasped and whirled about, stiletto heels forward in each fist.

“Hello, Deva.”

A shiver of panic swept through me. Did he have a gun? No, his hands were empty, but they were weapons enough.

Before he could lunge for me, I spun away from him and ran, snapping branches in my haste, shoving palm fronds out of the way, feet stinging, heart pumping.

Over my noisy retreat, I could hear him staying the course. Fear shot hot blood through me as I raced, not sparing so much as a second to look back. Soon, though, the sounds of pursuit became fainter and farther away. I must be outdistancing him.

Something sharp pierced my foot. I yelped in pain and kept on. The pain meant I was alive. I’d outrun him yet. He had twenty years on me, a man who spent most of his days in a fluorescent-lit operating room. When had he jogged the beach last? Probably never.

I leaped over a fallen log, then another. I hit the third log with the ball of my foot. The pain shot up to my teeth, the shoes flew out of my hands, and I fell, face-first, into a shallow ditch.

Stunned by the impact, I lay there for precious seconds. Morgan came pounding through the undergrowth and careened to a stop at the edge of the ditch.

I leaped up and grabbed the log I had tripped over. Like a mad Musketeer, I brandished it in front of me.

Morgan stood facing me, gasping for air, clenching and unclenching his hands, keeping his weapons warm and agile.

“Why, Morgan?”

He didn’t bother to ask what I meant. He knew. For a moment, poised for a leap at my throat, he looked like he wouldn’t respond, but he surprised me. “You’re too young to understand.”

“Try me,” I said, waving the log like a sword.

Sucking in some deep breaths, he waited, as if mulling over whether or not to reply, but finally he said, “Life was passing me by in slow, agonizing increments.”

“Very poetic. But I nearly flunked English 101.” Actually, I aced the course, but he didn’t have to know that. “So make it easy for me. The bugs are murder. I’ve got to get out of here.”

“I’ve spent years saving lives. Every life but my own.”

Was I imagining it, or had his voice gone shrill?

“I’m fifty years old. If I let the next few years slip by without seizing them-” his fists tightened, “-it will be too late…and now I’ve met her.”

“Ilona?”

He didn’t answer. I didn’t blame him. It was a stupid question.

“Since then, every day has been magic.”

“Yeah, carpe diem, Morgan. There’s ancient wisdom in seizing the day.”

“You can scoff. It doesn’t matter. She’s the woman of my dreams.” For some reason, he was whispering, though no one could hear us but the snakes and the bugs.

“Get real, Morgan. She’s turned your life into a nightmare.”

“No, she hasn’t. You have.”

He raised his hands to chest level. Getting ready for his big play, was he?

“Oh, really?” I goaded, letting the sarcasm drip. I’d be damned if I’d cower in front of him. “Was I the one who told you to kill three people?”

“I had no choice. The cook saw me the day-”

“-you cut the Monet out of its frame?”

He nodded, the slight slump of his shoulders the only acknowledgement of defeat. Or was it guilt?

“And Jesus caught you hiding one painting behind the other. And George? Well, George was just too smart. He guessed.”

“Unfortunately, yes.” He sounded calm and conversational now, as if we were having a pleasant chat in somebody’s living room. “The Sunrise belongs to Ilona. But she was correct. We need both paintings to live the life we deserve.”

“God, she’s got good ideas. Good breast implants, too.”

“Don’t be crass, Deva. It doesn’t become you.”

Crass? This from a guy who killed three innocent people in cold blood? A toxic mix of