is your only hope. Leave now, for my sake. Lose yourself and, whatever you do, stay lost. This monster will not give up easily.”
“I will miss you, Roland. I love you.”
“You brought light into my lonely, misspent life, my dear. I love you, too. Now, go.”
Roland coughed again. This time blood filled his mouth. Beatrice became aware of the utter stillness of his chest. Fleming’s heart was no longer beating. The dreadful red flood from the wound slowed to a trickle.
And in the terrible silence she heard footsteps on the stairs at the end of the hall.
Pistol in hand, she rose and hurried to the wardrobe on the far side of the room.
In all the time she had worked for him, regardless of where they set up the Academy, Roland had always had a bolt-hole. He had explained that there were two reasons for taking precautions. The first was that when business was brisk, they took in a fair amount of money that might attract villains intent on robbing them.
But the other, more important reason, he claimed, was that, by the very nature of their careers, they sometimes learned secrets that put them in personal danger. People tended to confide in paranormal practitioners, especially in the lucrative private counseling sessions where clients sought advice. Secrets were always dangerous.
She braced herself for the squeak of metal when she opened the wardrobe door and breathed a tiny sigh of relief when there was no sound. Roland had kept the hinges oiled.
She hiked up her bloodstained skirts and stepped into the wardrobe. Once inside, she pulled the door shut and groped in the darkness for the lever that operated the concealed panel.
The inner door slid aside with only the faintest of muffled sounds. Damp, dank night air wafted from the ancient stone passageway. There was just enough light slanting through the crack in the outer doors to reveal the small, shielded lantern, the package of lights and the two canvas packs on the floor. She returned the pistol to her stocking holster and scooped up the lantern and the lights.
She slung her pack over her shoulder and glanced at the dark mound of Roland’s pack. It was too heavy to carry in addition to her own burden, but there was money stashed inside. She would need it to survive until she found a way to reinvent herself.
Hurriedly she unfastened the second pack and rummaged around. In the shadows she had to go by feel. Her fingers brushed against some spare clothing and the hard shape of a notebook before she found an envelope. Assuming the emergency money was inside, she opened the envelope. But it proved to be filled with photographs. She stuffed the pictures back into the pack and tried again. This time she came up with a stack of letters bound together with string.
Frantic now, she reached back into the pack. She found a soft leather bag filled with money. She seized it and thrust it into her own pack.
She was about to light the lantern and move into the deep darkness of the tunnel when she heard the killer return to Roland’s office. Unable to resist, she took a quick peek through the crack in the wardrobe doors.
She could see very little of the man who stood over Fleming’s body, just a slice of heavy leather boots and the sweeping edge of a long black coat.
“You lied to me.” The voice was freighted with a thick Russian accent. “But you will not defeat me by dying on me, you miserable old fool. I found the wigs. I found the costumes she wears onstage. I will find her. There will be something here that will tell me where she is. The Bone Man never fails.”
The figure in the black coat crossed the room and moved out of Beatrice’s line of sight. She heard drawers being yanked open and knew that it was only a matter of seconds before the killer tried the wardrobe door.
“Ah, yes, now I see,” the intruder hissed. “You are here, aren’t you, little whore? You stepped in his blood, you stupid woman. I see your footprints. Come out of that wardrobe now and I will not hurt you. Defy me and you will pay.”
Her footprints. Of course. She had not been thinking.
She could scarcely breathe. She was shaking so terribly that it was all she could do to close and lock the heavy wooden panel that formed the back of the wardrobe. When Roland had installed it