didn’t give one, he went on. “Yeah,
they do. Just like goddamn rabbits. I know how it is. And then
there were the treatments, and the specialists and the medicine.
And hell, Raze had to have a place to come home to when they let
him out, didn’t he? He had to have a bed, and some heat, and
regular meals, right? Hey, I’m not saying you got greedy. You did
what you had to do to survive.” He absently fingered the geranium
that thrived in its basket on the counter. Lifting one snowy white
blossom to inspect it, he nodded once, and snapped it from its stem
without so much as blinking.
His figure blurred, and Brigit had to close
her eyes because of the red-hot stinging in them.
“I’m sorry, Sister Mary Agnes,” she
whispered.
“So you did a few more.” Zaslow kept talking,
ignoring her pain. He popped the little cluster of blossoms into a
buttonhole on his lapel, fussing with it until it hung just the way
he wanted. “So what? It’s not like you went out and killed someone
or robbed a bank, now is it? The owners never knew the difference.
No one got hurt. It isn’t as if you wanted a free ride, after all.
You just made enough money off your little forgery enterprise to
run away to this yuppie college town. Enough to buy this pretty
little flower shop, here. Made yourself into a respectable lady,
didn’t you Brigit? Member of the small business association and
everything. You go to community meetings and talk to troubled kids.
Donate money to the homeless. Volunteer at the soup kitchen on
weekends. What is all that, your penance or something?”
She lifted her fingers to her temples,
rubbing brutal circles there, lowering her chin to her chest. “Will
you please just leave me alone? Please?”
His hand was suddenly clasping her chin,
thumb and forefinger digging into her cheeks, forcing her head up.
He leaned over the counter so his face was close to hers. “You’re
no better than I am, Brigit, so drop the act. You’re a thief. And
you’re gonna do this for me. I promise you that.”
“No.” She tried to pull away from him.
He released her abruptly, and she stumbled
backward, knocked her head against the shelf behind her. A coleus
plummeted from the shelf, exploding on impact at her feet. Purple
and green leaves, broken stems, black soil, and bits of pottery
covered the floor and dusted her feet. Fragile roots lay
exposed.
“I got enough dirt on you to put you in
prison for thirty years.” He wasn’t yelling. Just speaking very
calmly as he straightened, adjusted, and gave his cuffs a
gentlemanly tug.
“If you turned me in, you’d go to prison,
too, Zaslow.”
“Wrong little lady. I’ve been to
prison. That last painting you forged for me...the buyer turned out
to be an undercover cop. I did my time, and I did it with my mouth
shut. They tried everything to get me to tell them the name of my
forger, but I wouldn’t do it.”
Brigit shook all over and remained where she
was, back to the wall literally as well as figuratively. “Not out
of loyalty,” she whispered. “You only kept my name out of it so you
could use me again.”
“Why doesn’t matter. You owe me, Brigit
Malone.”
“I can’t—”
“Then I’ll turn you in. And what do you think
will happen to the old man then? Huh, Brigit? What do you think
Raze will do? You think he can get by on the streets now like he
used to? Hell, he can barely feed himself.”
“Don’t do this.”
“It’s done. You get close to Reid. You get
inside his house, get a look at the painting, and then you make a
nice replica for me. Since Mel’s...unavailable, you make the switch
for me. Bring me the original. You do everything I say, exactly as
I say. Otherwise, I see to it the cops find out everything I
know.”
She thought of Adam Reid, though she tried to
blot his image from her mind. She thought of the pain in his eyes.
Passion and pain, all entwined together in eyes that glistened like
gemstones. He’d frightened her and drawn her
they do. Just like goddamn rabbits. I know how it is. And then
there were the treatments, and the specialists and the medicine.
And hell, Raze had to have a place to come home to when they let
him out, didn’t he? He had to have a bed, and some heat, and
regular meals, right? Hey, I’m not saying you got greedy. You did
what you had to do to survive.” He absently fingered the geranium
that thrived in its basket on the counter. Lifting one snowy white
blossom to inspect it, he nodded once, and snapped it from its stem
without so much as blinking.
His figure blurred, and Brigit had to close
her eyes because of the red-hot stinging in them.
“I’m sorry, Sister Mary Agnes,” she
whispered.
“So you did a few more.” Zaslow kept talking,
ignoring her pain. He popped the little cluster of blossoms into a
buttonhole on his lapel, fussing with it until it hung just the way
he wanted. “So what? It’s not like you went out and killed someone
or robbed a bank, now is it? The owners never knew the difference.
No one got hurt. It isn’t as if you wanted a free ride, after all.
You just made enough money off your little forgery enterprise to
run away to this yuppie college town. Enough to buy this pretty
little flower shop, here. Made yourself into a respectable lady,
didn’t you Brigit? Member of the small business association and
everything. You go to community meetings and talk to troubled kids.
Donate money to the homeless. Volunteer at the soup kitchen on
weekends. What is all that, your penance or something?”
She lifted her fingers to her temples,
rubbing brutal circles there, lowering her chin to her chest. “Will
you please just leave me alone? Please?”
His hand was suddenly clasping her chin,
thumb and forefinger digging into her cheeks, forcing her head up.
He leaned over the counter so his face was close to hers. “You’re
no better than I am, Brigit, so drop the act. You’re a thief. And
you’re gonna do this for me. I promise you that.”
“No.” She tried to pull away from him.
He released her abruptly, and she stumbled
backward, knocked her head against the shelf behind her. A coleus
plummeted from the shelf, exploding on impact at her feet. Purple
and green leaves, broken stems, black soil, and bits of pottery
covered the floor and dusted her feet. Fragile roots lay
exposed.
“I got enough dirt on you to put you in
prison for thirty years.” He wasn’t yelling. Just speaking very
calmly as he straightened, adjusted, and gave his cuffs a
gentlemanly tug.
“If you turned me in, you’d go to prison,
too, Zaslow.”
“Wrong little lady. I’ve been to
prison. That last painting you forged for me...the buyer turned out
to be an undercover cop. I did my time, and I did it with my mouth
shut. They tried everything to get me to tell them the name of my
forger, but I wouldn’t do it.”
Brigit shook all over and remained where she
was, back to the wall literally as well as figuratively. “Not out
of loyalty,” she whispered. “You only kept my name out of it so you
could use me again.”
“Why doesn’t matter. You owe me, Brigit
Malone.”
“I can’t—”
“Then I’ll turn you in. And what do you think
will happen to the old man then? Huh, Brigit? What do you think
Raze will do? You think he can get by on the streets now like he
used to? Hell, he can barely feed himself.”
“Don’t do this.”
“It’s done. You get close to Reid. You get
inside his house, get a look at the painting, and then you make a
nice replica for me. Since Mel’s...unavailable, you make the switch
for me. Bring me the original. You do everything I say, exactly as
I say. Otherwise, I see to it the cops find out everything I
know.”
She thought of Adam Reid, though she tried to
blot his image from her mind. She thought of the pain in his eyes.
Passion and pain, all entwined together in eyes that glistened like
gemstones. He’d frightened her and drawn her
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