“Sweet dreams,” Scara replied.
“Memories,” Bitterweed countered.
Scara’s lips pulled into a thin, savage smile. “Or maybe nightmares—take your pick.”
They hustled her toward a small black car that stood at the curb. Bitterweed pulled her into the back with him while his companion slid in behind the wheel. She had the motor started and was pulling away from the curb before Bitterweed was able to close his door.
“Watch it,” he told her.
Scara’s dark gaze regarded them from the rearview mirror. She sang softly, the melody nagging at Isabelle’s mind until she placed it as a song by the Australian group Divinyls. They’d been one of Kathy’s favorite bands, although this song had come out long after Kathy had died. Scara tapped her fingers in time on the steering wheel as she wove in and out of the traffic.
“Bless my soul,” she sang, reaching the chorus.
Isabelle shot a glance at the man beside her. What do you want from me? she’d asked him.
A piece of your soul. That’s all. One small piece of your soul.
You owe me.
He felt her glance and turned to meet her gaze. The shock of the alien person inhabiting that oh-so-familiar and much-missed body struck home all over again. She had to look away, out the window. The streets seemed unfamiliar, as though she were being taken through a city in which she’d never lived, never even been before. She realized that she didn’t know where she was, where she was going, what was going to happen to her. All she knew was that they were going to hurt her. They wanted something from her and, once she gave it to them, they were going to hurt her.
She looked up into the rearview mirror to find Scara’s hungry gaze fixed on her. When the girl mimed a kiss at her, Isabelle quickly turned back to the view outside her window.
Oh, John, she thought as she watched buildings she couldn’t recognize speed by. I need you now.
VIII
At first Alan didn’t recognize the black woman who was coming down the steps of his building just as he and Marisa were disembarking from their cab. When she stopped in front of them and called him by name, he immediately replied with a terse “No comment.”
“What?” she said, obviously confused.
Alan looked at her, a sense of familiarity coming to him now, but he still couldn’t place her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you were a reporter.”
She shook her head. “I’m Rolanda Hamilton—from the Foundation.”
“Right. I knew that. I’m really sorry. I ... I’m just ...”
“He’s not been having a very good day,” Marisa explained as Alan’s voice trailed off. She held out her hand and introduced herself
“It looks like I’ve come at a bad time,” Rolanda said. “Maybe I should come back later.”
Alan shook his head. He’d had a moment to collect himself by now. “I’ve had better days,” he told her, “but that’s no reason to take it out on you. What can I do for you?”
“This is a little embarrassing, but I have this problem ....”
“Don’t worry about intruding,” Alan said when at first she hesitated, then fell silent. “To tell you the truth, you couldn’t have come at a better time.” Rolanda raised her eyebrows.
“There’s nothing that helps you forget your own troubles like listening to someone else’s,” Alan explained. “So why don’t you come in?”
“I’ll put some water on,” Marisa said as they went into the apartment. “Tea or coffee, Rolanda?” she added.
“Whatever you’re having.”
Marisa went into the kitchen with Rolanda and Alan trailed along in her wake. They each took a chair at the kitchen table. As Marisa bustled about, filling the coffee maker and setting out mugs, Alan turned to their guest.
“So,” he said. “I hope you’re not here to tell me about the plans for some celebration that the Foundation has planned, now that we’ve finally got the okay to go ahead and publish the Mully omnibus.
I’d hate to put a damper on them, but there have been some ... complications.”
Rolanda shook her head. “No, it’s not that at all. Actually, now that I’m here, I really do feel embarrassed. You’re going to think that I’ve completely lost it.”
“Now I’m really intrigued.”
“But—”
“And I promise, I won’t laugh.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
“So,” Alan prompted her when she hesitated again.
Rolanda took a deep breath. “It’s just ... do you know a girl named Cosette?”
Everything went still inside Alan. Only in my dreams, he wanted to say, but all that came out was
“Cosette?”
“She’s about fifteen or so, maybe older. Red hair. She—actually, she looks just like that painting by Isabelle Copley that’s hanging in the Foundation’s waiting room. You know, the one with all the roses.”
“The Wild Girl,” Marisa offered from where she was leaning against the counter.
Rolanda nodded. “Cosette looks exactly like the wild girl. She says she was Copley’s model, but of course that’s impossible.”
She looked from Alan to Marisa as though expecting one of them to contradict her, but neither of them made a comment. Alan thought of that early-morning visitation on Isabelle’s island that he had convinced himself had only been a dream. His Cosette had looked exactly the same as Isabelle’s painting as well.
“What about her?” he asked finally when Rolanda didn’t go on. “She says she knows you.”
“I’ve ... met her. Or at least I’ve met someone calling herself Cosette who looks just like the girl in Isabelle’s picture.”
Rolanda appeared relieved at that. “Did you notice anything, well, strange about her?”
“Everything was strange about her.”
“I’m in the dark here,” Marisa said, joining them at the table. “Who are you talking about?”
Alan sighed. “It was when I stayed over at Isabelle’s place the other night.
On Wren Island,” he added, for Rolanda’s benefit. “I woke up just before dawn and she Cosette, that is—was sitting in the windowseat of the guest room just looking at me. We had a mostly one-sided conversation that didn’t make any real sense at all, but before I could get her to clarify anything, she opened the window and took off across the lawn.”
“That’s the only time you’ve met her?” Rolanda asked.
Alan nodded.
“She told me you were her boyfriend.”
“I don’t think anything she says can be taken at face value,” Alan said. “Well, she also told me that her feelings for you weren’t reciprocated.”
“What did Isabelle have to say about her?” Marisa wanted to know. “Nothing,” Alan said. “I never told her about it.”
Both women regarded him with surprise.
“But why not?” Marisa asked.
“I thought I was dreaming. I did ask Isabelle if there was anyone else living on the island and she told me there wasn’t. It was all very weird. Isabelle herself seemed jumpy that morning—I think she’d been up all night drawing—and I was afraid of getting onto the wrong foot with her again.” He turned to Rolanda. “She was going to illustrate the omnibus.”
“Was?” Rolanda asked. “She’s changed her mind?”
“Not exactly. Have you seen the news today?”
Rolanda shook her head.
“Margaret Mully was murdered last night.”
Rolanda’s eyes widened with surprise. “Maybe we should have a celebration,” she said. “I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but that’s one woman the world can certainly do without.”
“You won’t hear any argument from me.”
“But what does Mully’s death have to do with your publishing the omnibus?” Rolanda asked.