Julia shoved the door open, called out, “Ms. Golden? Kathryn? It’s Julia Ransom.”
There was no answer.
Cheney called out this time.
Still no answer.
They walked into a windowless entrance hall, the marble tile such a dark green they looked almost black in the dim light. “Suck in some air,” Julia said.
Cheney sniffed. “It’s vanilla, too much vanilla.”
“It’s her trademark scent.”
Kathryn Golden appeared in the living-room doorway, framed and posing. She looked around forty-five and was dressed beautifully in a full-skirted long-sleeved black dress, her black hair in a stylish chignon. She wore open-toed three-inch heels and diamond studs in her ears. She looked ready to tango. TV appearance?
She arched an eyebrow. “Julia, whatever are you doing here? And who is this man?”
“This is Special Agent Cheney Stone, Kathryn. May we speak with you?”
“I’ve been watching the news. I hope you’re being careful. Yes now I recognize you, Agent Stone. You saved Julia’s life.”
Julia nodded. “Yes, he did. Agent Stone is continuing to keep me safe.”
They followed Kathryn Golden into the immense living room that stretched, Cheney saw, the entire length of the house. It was long and narrow, with thick burgundy drapes closed over the wall-to-wall windows set at both ends. The floors were darkly varnished, bare of rugs. He looked over at a huge dark-veined golden marble fireplace on the opposite wall that looked like it had never been used.
The room was starkly elegant, like a museum, until you realized all the furniture groupings in the long room were black woven rattan. The extreme contrast in styles wasn’t tacky, but rather oddly charming. There had to be a story behind this. Then he noticed the modern art covering one of the stark white walls, dark violent paintings, some of them of mouths that seemed to be screaming at him. It gave him the willies to look at them.
Suddenly Kathryn Golden stopped in her tracks, and didn’t move, didn’t even seem to breathe.
CHAPTER 33
“Ms. Golden? Are you all right?”
“Please be quiet. I’m having a vision. You and Julia—back away. Go sit down.”
Julia didn’t seem at all alarmed or find this particularly strange. She shushed him, pointed him to one of the long rattan sofas.
He watched Kathryn Golden kick off her high heels, sink to the floor, and assume the lotus position facing the fireplace, her black skirts billowing out around her. He guessed she knew better than to wear a tight skirt. He saw she had a nice French pedicure and perfect fingernails.
He opened his mouth but Julia shushed him again.
They sat silently as Kathryn Golden threw her head back, clenched her hands on her thighs and began to weave, left to right, right to left, and started to keen, an eerie sound that was vaguely ridiculous but nevertheless raised gooseflesh on his arms.
She began moving in a wide circle now. He heard her breathing heavily. He felt like arresting her for fraud, or maybe for trying to scare an officer of the law.
The weaving lessened, the keening became low, almost a whisper. Then, suddenly, it was over. She snapped awake, came to her feet in a single graceful motion and smoothed her skirts back down. She slipped her heels back onto her feet.
She sat down opposite them, crossed her legs, and stared at Julia. “My vision was about you, Julia. In it, I was you—I felt young and limber, like I could leap into a tree if I wanted to. It felt so very good. Then I saw a man and I knew he was watching me—rather you. I saw deep cold blackness at his center, saw the virulent purple flashes of his narcissism and his pride in himself and his work.
“He’s the one who wants to kill you, Julia. That first time at Pier 39 you were nothing to him, only a job to carry out. He didn’t hate you, nothing like that. But he does now.” She stopped because her breathing had kicked up. She closed her eyes a moment, then slowly opened them, blinking.
Julia said matter-of-factly, “He was all over the news, Kathryn, his picture, the fact that he’s probably a hired killer, the works.”
“Always the little skeptic,” Kathryn said, pleating her skirt with long thin fingers. “August said you often refused to believe anything anybody said, except for him, of course.
“What I told you is the truth, Julia, and it’s deeper than the news. I saw what’s inside him, what he’s about. He’s very dangerous and very smart, but he’s barely human anymore. He’s empty and cold. He wants to kill you, wants it to his very core.”
“The cops didn’t release his name to the media,” Cheney said. “Did you see in your vision what it is, Ms. Golden?”