Defending Angels Read online

  “We cannot forecast, we cannot ordain, we cannot defend until all the facts are brought to light,” Petru said.

  “He means we’ll know when we get there,” Ronald said. “Like any case for the defense, we have to get all the facts together.”

  “He’s accused of Greed?”

  “One of the seven ...” Lavinia said.

  “Deadly Felonies. I know.” Bree rubbed her temples. It was hard to think clearly through the humming and the light. “So maybe the defense lies in the reason he was murdered?”

  Professor Cianquino nodded approvingly.

  “So if we find out why, we can defend him from the charge of Greed. That’s a start.” She was beginning to feel her way now. “There’s a problem, though. Shouldn’t I interview him? I hope,” she said a little uneasily, “that I don’t have to go to wherever he is now.”

  “You have to go to the place he died,” Lavinia said. “And see if he comes to you.”

  The boat. That was easy enough. If he had, in fact, died on the boat. But it was a start. Bree took a deep breath. “Okay. So. What happened in my living room this afternoon?”

  “That,” Professor Cianquino said, “is actually why we are here. We are quite concerned.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from everyone at the table. Sasha thrust his cold nose in her hand and whined.

  “Everyone has a temporal destiny,” Professor Cianquino continued. “Each of us discovers it alone, and in our own time. You were on your way to accepting yours. And then this.” He raised one frail hand and held it, palm out. “Nothing less than an attack. And you had no weapons to respond with other than your courage. It’s quite puzzling.”

  The bird marched up and down the length of its perch. “Avarice! Wrath! Envy!”

  Professor Cianquino nodded thoughtfully. “In a general way, that’s true, Archie. The Adversary and those who follow him are driven by those evils and more besides. But there was a specific reason behind this breach of the balance between the Spheres. I’d like to find out what it is.”

  “Maybe it was just to scare her off,” Lavinia said. “She bound for glory, this one. On’y one in a century that could even think about taking on them Pendergasts.”

  “You think so, Lavinia?” Professor Cianquino asked. “That is quite interesting. An advocate of sufficient strength to do that hasn’t been seen for some time. And yes, he would be determined in his desire to see her task aborted. We may be faced with many such intrusions as she experienced tonight.”

  Bree shuddered.

  “I would not be counting chickens too soon,” Petru said. “She is untried, untested. Who knows what she will be able to do? Perhaps nothing.” His kind eyes twinkled at Bree. “You understand, my dear, that I am seeming ke-vite rude, without intention.”

  “Well, she didn’t fold when the cormorant went after her,” Ron said tartly. “That’s a whole pile of healthy chickens in my book.”

  Bree disliked being a subject of a conversation in which she had no part, especially when she was being misrepresented. So she said frankly, “I certainly did fold. When that thing came out of the mirror, I’ve never been so scared in all my life.” She glanced at Striker and then away again.

  “Pst!” Lavinia said. “You grabbed the dog and shut the door in the cormorant’s face. And you ain’t even a probationary guardian yet. Me? That happen to me when I was no more than a green girl, I would have thrown myself into the Pit and gladly.”

  Ronald snorted. “None of us believe that, Lavinia. We’ve all seen you in action.” He turned to Bree and patted her hand soothingly. “But we don’t want to lose you, Bree, and the next time the cormorant flies, you had better be prepared.” He looked at all of them in turn. “What just gets me is that she had nothing to defend herself with. No faith. No belief. Just her own gutsy self. So I say ‘Bravo!’ again, Bree.”

  “I take it you have a solution to keeping her safe?” Gabe asked dryly.

  “She needs her name,” Ronald said promptly.

  Professor Cianquino shook his head. “You’re far too impetuous, Ronald. It wouldn’t work. It’s not time for that yet.”

  “Then what if we give her our names?”

  There was a short silence. “It could work,” Petru said doubtfully.

  “You could call us then, you see,” Ron said, “when you needed help. It’s a bit unusual, doing things this way, but this isn’t a usual situation.”

  Bree wanted to point out that she’d known Professor Cianquino’s name, at least, for most of her twenty-nine years, but she didn’t.

  “We’re agreed, then?” Striker said.

  “I agree,” Petru said. “But under protest. It is always dangerous to walk outside the correct path.”

  “You’re such a stick in the mud, Petru,” Ronald complained.

  “She’s goin’ to need all the help we can give her,” Lavinia said. “Them Pendergasts is vengeful folk. So hush, Petru.”

  “Close your eyes, ducky,” Ronald said comfortably, “and try not to think of anything at all.” He reached across the table and took her hands in his. Bree closed her eyes halfway, and watched them from underneath her eyelashes. The humming, crackling energy in the room increased, bit by bit. The shimmer in the air thickened to a golden mist that veiled them all, and when it lifted, Bree stood in a meadow thick with velvet green grass and starred with flowers. The silence was absolute. A light breeze touched her cheeks. The scent of some unknown, indescribably fragrant flowers drifted past. There was a sound of wind chimes, an infinite number of crystal bells stirring with the breeze.

  A winged, glowing column took shape before her, a furled and spinning rainbow, and radiant with all the colors of the stars.

  “Tabris.” The voice was Cianquino’s, and not Cianquino’s.

  And a second spun into being next to the first. The light was the color of the moon.

  “Matriel,” Lavinia said.

  Then the others:

  “Dara,” said the Petru shape.

  “Rashiel.” That hint of laughter was Ron and Ron’s alone.

  “Sensiel.” Sasha’s was the voice of a boy.

  “Gabriel.” The word was deep, soft, and vast as the oceans.

  “You’re one of us,” they said. “The Company.”

  The crystal radiance swept her, surrounded her.

  “Bree, you’re one of us.” And then, with a shout that seemed to reach the heavens, “The Company!”

  She woke up in bed, in her room at home, to the sound of rain and the howling of a rising wind.

  She was sure she was going crazy.

  Seventeen

  Unbelief is blind.

  —Comus: A Mask, John Milton

  “Why does it always rain on Sunday?” Antonia stabbed at her yogurt with a spoon. “And I can’t believe I ate all that crap last night. Why didn’t you stop me?”

  Bree sat at the kitchen table and looked out at the river. The Savannah was less than a quarter mile across here, and she could see the green of the opposite shore through the rain. The Atlantic was a few miles downriver to the west; to the east were the warehouses, cranes, and piers of the Savannah docks. Normal. It was a normal view on a normal Sunday, and she was as mad as a hatter. She didn’t know what to do. Who to call. Maybe she should check herself into a clinic somewhere.

  “Don’t you want your yogurt?” Antonia raised her voice. “Hello! Hello! Earth to Bree!”

  “Keep it down to a dull roar, will you?”

  “Dad always says that,” Antonia said. “And if you aren’t going to eat your yogurt, can I have it?”

  Bree pushed it across the table.

  “You’re quiet this morning.” Her sister tore the metal foil off the top of the yogurt cup. “Yuck. Raspberry, I hate raspberry.”

  “You could have found that out without opening it up.” Bree got up, grabbed it out of Antonia’s hands, and found a spoon. “I’ll eat it myself. There’s cherry in the fridge.”

  “Let’s go d
own to Huey’s for sugar doughnuts.”

  “You just finished shrieking about how much junk food you ate last night and you want more? Besides, I have to go out to Tybee Island this morning. I want to take a look at Skinner’s boat.”

  “It’s miserable out there!”

  “It’s not cold,” Bree said. “And I’ll take an umbrella.”

  “Bet they won’t let you on it,” Antonia said wisely. “I mean, it’s a crime scene and all.”

  “Officially it’s an accident. And besides, how hard can it be to duck under that yellow crime scene tape?” Bree swallowed the last of the raspberry yogurt, and went to collect her rain gear. Sasha, lying quietly on the kitchen floor, raised his head in protest as she walked by. “You’ll take care of Sasha this morning?”

  “I was going to go down to the theater and see if there’s any movement on the job front.”

  “On Sunday?”

  “There’s a matinee and a show tonight, stupid. It’s Mondays that theaters are dark.”

  Bree ignored the rudeness. “Mom and Dad are coming in around noon tomorrow,” she said sympathetically. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I hope you realize I’m facing outraged floods of parental disapproval, if not outright disinheritment.”

  “I don’t think ‘disinheritment’ is a real word.”

  “The effect will be real enough,” Antonia said glumly.

  Bree draped her raincoat on the kitchen counter and sat next to her sister. “Listen. Why don’t we talk to them about sending you away to a real drama school? Maybe something in New York?”

  “I’m supposed to major in something that’ll get me a ‘real’ job. Like yours.”

  The bitterness in her voice shocked Bree. “I don’t think they want you to be a lawyer.”

  “I’m not smart enough to be a lawyer.”

  Bree made a real effort to control her exasperation. “You don’t have to be particularly smart to be a lawyer. You just have to study hard.”

  Antonia drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. “Did you ever wonder if we were really sisters?”

  “What!”

  “I’m serious. We don’t look alike. We don’t think alike. You were the gorgeous brain and I was the dumb-ass clown. I think,” she said woefully, “that I’m adopted.”

  Bree had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. “Well, you aren’t. I remember Mamma being pregnant with you, and I remember when she brought you home from the hospital and I threw away all my Barbies because I figured I had this cool new doll to play with.”

  “Then maybe you’re adopted. Ever think of that?”

  Bree stared at her.

  Antonia went pale and jumped to her feet. “Hey!” she said. “Hey! I was just kidding. Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” Bree said through stiff lips. “I’m fine.” She got up mechanically and gathered her rain gear. “So you can’t take Sasha with you today?”

  “I will if you want. Sure.”

  Sasha, as if to demonstrate how well his leg was healing, sprang to his feet and wagged his tail frantically. His gaze clearly said: I want to go with you. His eagerness and his big doggy grin lifted her spirits.

  “Okay, so somebody thinks I’m good normal company,” Bree said to him, “but you stay in the car while I take a look at the boat. I don’t want you falling overboard like Mr. Skinner.”

  It was a forty-minute drive to Tybee Island in good weather. The rain-slick roads slowed traffic down. Bree found herself muttering at the Sunday drivers who figured the best defense against falling off the road was to straddle both lanes. It was more than an hour later when she took Highway 80 to the exit, and rolled along the coastal road to the marina. The rain had stopped. The wind was stiff. The weather had kept most of the smaller motorized craft, and almost all of the sailboats, at the docks. The parking lot to the clubhouse was full. Bree saw Grainger and Jennifer’s powder blue Mercedes among the Acuras, Jaguars, and BMWs, but the piers were vacant. Everybody with a boat seemed to be inside the marina drinking Bloody Marys or mimosas.

  A quarter mile or so beyond the marina stood Skinner Tower. Red, white, and blue bunting flapped from the penthouse, torn loose by the gusting wind. A huge banner printed with NOW RENTING blew awkwardly against the fourth-story balconies. Bree wondered what the old building had looked like before Fairchild tore it down. Made of cobblestone, most likely, or perhaps red brick.

  She parked in the “reserved for regatta master” spot, under the assumption that Force 2 winds and a heavy chop precluded the usual Sunday regatta, and wrapped herself in her raincoat against the chill of the air. She cranked the car windows down, to leave air for Sasha, and got out of the car. The halyards chimed wildly. She drew her hood over her hair and started her search for Slip 42, the Sea Mew’s berth.

  She found it at the end of the pier farthest from the clubhouse, with Sam Hunter standing at the helm.

  She stood for a moment, squinting up at him. He had a Windbreaker on, open to the weather, and a NYPD billed hat on his head. He regarded her for a long moment, then moved to the bulkhead and extended his hand. The boat pitched against her lines, and Bree waited for a downswing before she grabbed his hand and scrambled aboard. She fell against him as the ship yawed up, and then regained her feet, conscious of the hard muscling of his chest.

  “Are you feeling any better?”

  “What!”

  He drew her toward the cabin and opened the door. Once inside, the noise of the wind dropped almost completely. The Sea Mew was a well-made boat.

  “I asked if you were feeling any better. You don’t look well, if you don’t mind my being frank.”

  Reflexively, Bree put her hand on her forehead. “I don’t?”

  He touched her cheek gently. “Looks as if you haven’t had a great deal of sleep.”

  She stepped back and his hand fell away. “Looks like we both had the same idea.” She shot a glance at him. “Unless this is official?”

  “No, it’s not official.”

  She moved about the small cabin, looking out through the rain-lashed windows at the deck. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for—or what she was waiting for. Her aunt Cissy had an expression that summed up what she felt; she was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

  Sam stood behind her. His breath whispered by her ear. “Skinner senior sat in the prow with his back to the sea. Jennifer stood at the helm. Grainger said he was in here, getting a bottle of water from the refrigerator when he saw his father clutch his chest and go over the side.”

  “And then he rushed outside, yelling at his wife to come about, et cetera, et cetera,” Bree said.

  “You’ve read the police report. I’d sure like to know how you got hold of it before the investigation closed.”

  She leaned back a little and looked up at him. “We lawyers have our ways.”

  For a long moment, his coin-colored eyes looked into hers. “Yes,” he said, “well.” He stepped back, and the moment passed—if it had been a moment, and not her hopeful imagination. “See anything we might have overlooked?”

  Bree shook her head and then said, “Wait a second. What’s that at the base of the deck?”

  “The wall, you mean?”

  She brushed past him and out into the wind. “Here!” she shouted. “These clips set into the deck! They don’t have any sailing purpose that I’ve ever seen.”

  “For the fishing lines?”

  She rolled her eyes, then knelt down and examined the clips more closely. They were brackets, actually, two inches high, about an inch deep, and bolted onto the deck at two-foot intervals. They led from the helm to the bench seat at the prow. Above the bench, two galvanized steel rings were bolted on either side of the ship’s wall just as it came to the vee. Bree had been in this class of yachts before. She put her hand on the cushioned seat.

  Nothing.

  She closed her eyes. Feeling like sixteen kinds of a fool, she
tried to imagine Skinner’s face as she had seen it in the Forbes magazine article.

  Not a peep. If Skinner’s ghost truly lingered at the spot where he died, he hadn’t died here. She opened her eyes and turned to Hunter. “I know how they did it.”

  “How they did what?”

  “Disposed of the body. You see these rings? They tied him to the bench. And at the right moment, probably when they were sure they had a witness, they jerked on the lines and sent the body overboard.” She shaded her eyes and looked over Sam’s shoulder to the concrete towers of the Skinner building. “And he didn’t die here.”

  He snorted. Bree scowled and said, as icily as she could while still keeping her balance on the deck, “Did I say something funny?”

  “Guesswork isn’t admissible.”

  “Then we should look for some hard evidence, don’t you think?”

  “Now I get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “You’re more Southern when your temper’s up.”

  Bree smiled sweetly. “Do tell, Lieutenant. What about searching for some evidence?”

  He ran his hand over his face. A spatter of rain swept across the deck. He looked up at the sky, which was gloomier than ever. “Let’s get out of the rain and talk.”

  “Like where?” She gestured at their surroundings. “The nearest place is the country club. And I’m not a member.”

  “My car.”

  “My car. I want to check on my dog.”

  Sasha watched their approach with his nose pressed against the driver’s door, his tail thumping wildly. Bree edged him carefully into the passenger’s seat. Hunter got into the back.

  “I don’t know how he managed to scoot over the top and up into here,” she said. “You wouldn’t think he had a broken leg at all.”