many of you are involved in this mess? I want some answers and I want ‘em fast. Where are the new drawings? Answer me!” A large ski-masked shape heaved itself into his field of vision.
There was a crack and Marc’s slapped face snapped around. Good. Woke him up, sharpened his senses and got his adrenaline boiling. David’s apartment… right. He had let himself in, humming happily, pretty good spirits, thoughts of Ace dancing through his bed- head!
Then everything went the proverbial black, preceded by the not-so-proverbial splitting pain in his head that remained with him still.
It was the big guy they had caught rifling Amanda’s apartment, Cissy’s unexpected guest. His head now covered with a ski-mask and he was making an effort to disguise his voice, but Marc would know his violent presence anywhere.
Another sharp slap stung the side of Marc’s head. The private investigator’s senses sharpened to a razor’s edge even as his body contracted in a counterfeit cringe from the onslaught.
“Answer me, fruit! What the hell is going on with the Italian guy and you? Parkerson set you up? You know where the new drawings are, don’t you? Damn creepy Angeli, doesn’t know shit! Talk to me!”
The man grabbed a nearby large bookend and drew his thick arm back. Marc ducked his head and flung himself forward, butting into the large barrel chest.
With a searing tear at his wrists, one arm swung free.
With a bellow, the struck body fell backwards, clattering into an end table as Marc toppled to the floor. A dislodged lamp smashed near his head.
Pivoting himself on his free arm, Marc used his body as a fulcrum and swung the chair still attached to his lower body against his attacker, who was scrambling to right himself. The furious man threw himself at the retaliating private eye as Marc’s other hand came free. Bracing himself on the floor, Marc cocked his legs back and shot them forward driving the attached chair into his attacker’s chest like a desperate lion tamer.
The dining room chair splintered in stabbing shards against the barrel chest, one leg catching the howling man over an eye. He screamed in agony, clutching at his head as Marc hunched his body and jack-knifed himself upright and staggered for the door, pieces of the attached chair clattering after him.
“I’ll kill you, by God!” Marc heard the furious roar behind him as his mind raced to place the accent his assailant had ceased to attempt to suppress. Irish? Cockney?
Marc tried to wrench the door open. Maybe the man had snatched the mask off his wounded head. Marc glanced back to make a positive identification.
His assailant was indeed bareheaded, but with the tangle of dislodged dark hair, a beefy hand clutching at a slash of red, and the infuriated distortion of his features as he shrieked at his retreating victim, Marc caught nothing but a general impression of the large man flailing among the clattering utensils on the kitchen island.
He did somewhat resemble the elegant, large Mr. Wilde in the life class. That put that bit of misinformation to rest.
How much time had passed since he had been knocked out? Amanda must be worried sick. As he clawed at the bolts of the door, out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of one of David’s prize copper-bottomed frying pans sailing toward his head.
A flash of incandescence and he dropped like a stone.
Chapter 10
AMANDA watched with a mixture of horror and amazement as the life class of the world-famous Art Students League disintegrated into chaos. David Parkerson’s screaming face was a mask of fear as he flailed ineffectively at his students, trying to restore order.
Half the participants had succumbed to the bloodlust of the mob, a vicious game of who would wrest power from whom. Others were indignant and furious at weeks of being treated so cavalierly and were determined to voice their repressed anger. Nathan, though in the midst of the shouting battle, was oddly silent, his ferret eyes fastening on one anger distorted face and then another, almost frighteningly concentrated on some inner directive. He worried Amanda most.
Parkerson stumbled backward through shoving students, in retreat from a gesticulating, chastising Christine and Mr. Wilde who was waving his arms and bellowing for calm as he swam through the sea of angry bodies toward the beleaguered instructor. At the forefront was a red-faced Professor Angeli, screaming invectives.
The vituperation pouring from her beloved, old friend shocked Amanda. His anger far exceeded the situation. Deep, hidden frustration boiled forth unchecked in his shouted hostile reprimands.
A yell of rage mixed with pain burst from the instructor as he backed into a large cabinet filled with plaster casts. There was a moment’s horrible pause before a piercing scream of shock stilled the roiling students. A large fragment of a Greek torso toppled from a high shelf and struck the teacher to the floor, shattering around his crumpled body.
“Parkerson!”
“Oh my God!”
“He’s out cold!”
“He’s bleeding!”
“He’s not moving!”
“Get help!”
“Does anyone know first aid?!”
Professor Angeli staggered backward in horror, his trembling hands to his gaping mouth and fevered brow, a picture of pure melodramatic terror. “What have I done?” With a heart-rending cry he dashed from the room.
Amanda shoved shocked bodies aside to get to the fallen instructor. It looked serious. Blood poured from his head and he was growing pale. She thrust the large chunks of broken plaster aside to inspect the wound without moving Parkerson’s body.
“Call 911 now,” she instructed loudly to the mob of milling students. “Nathan, get this stuff out of the way! Christine, grab that clean drapery from the posing platform. Bring it here, quickly.”
She lightly touched Parkerson’s forehead. “We need to cover David, he may go into shock. Mr. Wilde, go after the professor. He’s hysterical. He might hurt himself. He’ll listen to you.”
She brushed a bit of plaster from the instructor’s head. The wound seemed clean. Folding an end of the drapery Christine handed her, she placed the pad against the bleeding slash and pressed firmly as several members of the class covered Parkerson with drapes and coats.
A horrified member of the League’s office staff appeared with a first aid kit. Within minutes, paramedics arrived to attend to Parkerson’s wound properly and bundle the still unconscious man onto a stretcher.
Amanda leaned against the doorway to the classroom.
The paramedics wheeled the gurney down the hall and out the front door as Amanda grabbed the coat and portfolio that Christine pushed into her hands.
She turned to follow the group and caught sight of a scowling Nathan staring after the stricken instructor as the attending group disappeared down the front entrance.
“C’mon, Nathan. We’re all going to the hospital.”
“No, I don’t like blood.”
Christine reappeared, looking for the young artist.
“Christine, you and Nathan check in the office about insurance. We don’t need that to hang us up at the hospital. I’ll call you from emergency.”
“Right. C’mon, hot shot. Let’s go make ourselves useful.”
Nathan pulled away from Christine’s grip. “I’m sorry the old guy got hurt, but he brought it on himself. Pompous
