SEVENTEEN

Trembling, Tess braked the Porsche to a stop outside a well-maintained Victorian house near Georgetown, grabbed her purse with its reassuring pistol, and hurried up the steps to the wide porch, pressing the doorbell.

No one answered.

She rang the bell again.

Still no answer.

Nervous, she wasn't surprised. At least, not exactly. The man who lived here, her former art professor at Georgetown University, was renowned for spending his summer vacation in his back yard, tending, caring for, whispering to his magnificent collection of lilies.

But that had been in the old days, Tess remembered with painful nostalgia. After all, she hadn't seen her beloved professor since she'd graduated six years ago.

Professor Harding had been old even then. Perhaps he'd retired. Or perhaps he'd gone to Europe to study the art he so worshipped and the enthusiasm for which he so ably communicated in his courses.

All Tess knew was that he'd treated his students as if they were part of his family. He'd welcomed them to his home. At sunset, amid the glorious lilies in his garden, he'd offered them sherry but not too much – he didn't want to cloud their judgment – and described the glories of Velazquez, Goya, and Picasso.

Spanish. Professor Harding had always been partial to the genius of Spanish art. The only competition for Harding's admiration had been…

Tess stepped from the porch and rounded the side of the house, proceeding toward the back yard. After so many years, she hadn't remembered Professor Harding's phone number, and in any case, she'd felt too panicked, too exposed, too threatened, to stop at a phone booth and get his number from information. Needing somewhere to go, she'd decided to come here directly and take the chance he was home. There was no alternative. She had to know.

But as she reached the back yard, her immediate fears were subdued. She felt a warm flush of love surge through her chest at the sight of Professor Harding – much older - distressingly infirm – as he straightened painfully from examining a waist-high lily stalk.

The back yard was glorious with the flowers. Everywhere, except for a maze of narrow paths that allowed visitors to stroll in admiration, the garden was filled with abundant, myriad, trumpet-shaped, resplendent, many-colored tributes to God's generosity.

Tess faltered amid the beauty. She clutched her purse and the weight of its pistol, reminding herself of how far she'd come, not necessarily forward, since leaving Georgetown University. How she wished she was back there.

Professor Harding turned and noticed her. 'Yes?' Trembling, he fought to maintain his balance. 'You've come to see my…?'

'Flowers. As usual, they're wonderful!'

'You're very kind.' Professor Harding used a cane and hobbled toward her. To my regret, there once was a time…'

'Your regret?'

'The poisonous air. The equally poisonous rain. Eight years ago…'

'I was here,' Tess said. 'I remember.'

'The lilies were…' Professor Harding, wrinkled, alarmingly aged, sank toward a redwood bench. His white hair was thin and wispy, his skin slack, dark with liver spots. 'What you see is nothing. A mockery. There once was a time, when nature was in control… The lilies used to be so…'He stared toward his cane and trembled. 'Next year…' He trembled increasingly. 'I won't subject them to this poison. Next year, I'll let them rest in peace. But their bulbs will be safely stored. And perhaps one day grow flowers again. If the planet is ever purified.'

Tess glanced defensively backward, clutching the outline of her handgun in her purse, then approaching.

'But do I know you?' Professor Harding asked. He steadied his wire-rimmed glasses and squinted in concentration. 'Why, it's Tess. Can it actually be you? Of course. Tess Drake.'

Tess smiled, her tear ducts aching. 'I'm so pleased you haven't forgotten.'

'How could I possibly forget? Your beauty filled my classroom.'

Tess blushed. 'Now you're the one who's being kind.' She sat beside him on the redwood bench and gently hugged him.

'In fact, if I'm not mistaken, you were in many of my classes. Each year, you took a course.' The professor's voice sounded like wind through dead leaves.

'I loved hearing you talk about art.'

'Ah, but more important, you loved the art itself. It showed in your eyes.' Professor Harding squinted harder, as if at something far away. 'Mind you, in honesty, you weren't my best student…'

'Mostly B's, I'm afraid.'

'But by all means, you were certainly my most enthusiastic student.' The professor's thin, wrinkled lips formed a smile of affection. 'And it's so good of you to come back. You know, many students promised they would – after they graduated and all.' His smile faded. 'But as I learned to expect…'

'Yes?'

'They never did.'

Tess felt a tightness in her throat. 'Well, here I am. Late, I regret.'

'As you always came late for class.' The old man chuckled. 'Just a few minutes. I wasn't distracted. But it seems you couldn't resist a grand entrance.'

Tess echoed the old man's chuckle. 'Really, I wasn't trying to make a grand entrance. It's just that I couldn't manage to get out of bed on time.'

'Well, my dear, when you're my age, you'll find that you wake up at dawn.' The professor's frail voice faded. 'And often earlier. Much earlier.'

He cleared his throat.

Their conversation faltered.

Even so, Tess found that the silence was comfortable.

Soothing.

She admired the lilies.

How I wish I could stay here forever, she thought. How I wish that my world wasn't falling to pieces.

'Professor, can we talk about art for a while?'

'My pleasure. As you're aware, apart from my lilies, I've always enjoyed a discussion…'

'About a bas-relief statue? I'd like to show you a picture of it.'

Apprehensive, Tess withdrew the packet of photographs from her purse, taking care to conceal the handgun.

'But why…? You're so somber.' Professor Harding narrowed his white, sparse eyebrows. 'Have you lost your enthusiasm for the subject?'

'Not for the subject,' Tess said. 'But as far as this goes…' She showed him the photograph of the statue. 'This is another matter.'

Professor Harding scowled, creating more wrinkles on his forehead. He pushed up his glasses, then raised the photograph toward them. 'Yes, I can see why you're disturbed.'

He shifted the picture forward, then backward, and with each motion shook his head. 'Such a brutal image. And the style. So rough. So crude. It's certainly not something I care for. Certainly not Velazquez.'

'But what can you tell me about it?' Tess held her breath.

'I'm sorry, Tess. You'll have to be more specific. What exactly do you need to know? What's your interest in this? Where did you find it?'

Tess debated how much to tell him. The less the old man knew, the better. If the killers found out that she'd come here, ignorance and infirmity might be the difference that saved Professor Harding's life. 'A friend of mine had it in his bedroom.'

'That doesn't say much for his taste. His bedroom? This doesn't belong even in a tool shed.'

'I agree. But have you any idea who might have sculpted it? Or why! Or what it means! Are there any sculptors you know or you've heard of who might have done it?'

'Dear me, no. I can see why you're confused. You think this sculpture might relate to a contemporary school of… I don't know what I'd call them… neo-primitives or avant-garde classicists.'

'Professor, forgive me. I'm still not a very good student. What you just said… You've lost me.'

'I'll try to be more enlightening. This photograph. It's difficult to tell from the image, but the sculpture seems to be in perfect condition. Distinct lines. No missing sections. No chips. No cracks. No sign of weathering.'