Midnight Medusa

He gave a mirthless smile, a gleam of savagery in his eye. “No doubt. Sounds like you clocked the perp. Did you throw the hammer because you were scared or angry?”

“Both,” Renata admitted.

“Then it seems to me that your anger is what kept you from being kidnapped tonight and it’ll help with your art too.”

Renata couldn’t help thinking, yet again, that this was no ordinary police detective. Once again, he took her hands in his. She felt something tug at her emotions and she realized she was no longer shaking from fear.

Only rage.

Someone had broken into her apartment. Someone had pointed a gun at her and tried to take her. Someone had come into her world, uninvited, and tried to rip apart her life just like the invading soldiers had done all those years ago. And someone should have to pay for that.

Anger roiled and coiled inside her, twisting upon itself with venomous purpose. It was past midnight.

Renata picked up her tools and began to sculpt.

Chapter Two

The dark shadows of Renata’s studio receded with the sunrise, and she was roused by an early morning phone call. When Renata told her about the break-in, her foster-mother sounded worried. “You should have never taken a studio in that part of town. Why wasn’t the boyfriend there with you?”

“Scylla turned out to be much better protection,” Renata said, deciding that now was probably not the time to announce that she and the boyfriend had parted ways. It had happened the way it always did: he accused her of keeping secrets from him, and maybe she had been secretive. After all, some pain you just couldn’t share except through art. “Anyway,” Renata said into the phone. “I just wanted to call and ask you to wish me luck at the exhibit today. I’m a little nervous.”

“Oh, Renata, your work is amazing. You’re going to be the talk of the town, honey.”

Renata would feel better if her foster parents could attend the exhibit, but they were several states away. Besides, they had already done enough for her. They had taken her in as a child-refugee of a foreign war, and stood by her through countless surgeries to repair her scars. The art show was just going to have to be something Renata did on her own.

“Renata, I know the news is unsettling.…”

Cold dread pooled in the pit of Renata’s stomach. “What news?”

Her foster mother’s silence told her all she needed to know. Renata grabbed the remote and turned on the television.

The war criminal was dead.

It was happening again. The International Criminal Tribunal had not even had the chance to pass judgment on him. He had simply died in his cell.

Perversely, the morning’s headlines made Renata’s exhibit extremely popular. Visitors flocked to see her artwork, all whispering about the mysterious way in which the accused war criminal had died. Renata knew she should be elated by the attention, but she was sad, because no matter how much critical acclaim she received, if not for her foster parents, Renata would be alone in this world.

“Don’t stare like that,” Marta, the gallery owner, chided. “You look beautiful, but it’s very intimidating. Smile, it’s your big debut! And here, let me fix your hair.”

Renata knew her exotic dark curls were impervious to the taming of a comb or barrette and they’d never submit to the sleek styles that were currently in fashion, so she rolled her eyes and said, “Never mind my hair, Marta! What are they saying about the exhibit? Do they like it?”

“Darling, they love it! And I need to introduce you to a potential buyer with very deep pockets.”

For Renata, this was the most discomfiting part about art. She loved creating, she savored the outlet, and she needed to sell her work to pay the rent. But as a sculptress, she felt an intimate relationship to every piece in her collection. It was difficult to let them go. Still, Renata forced a smile and followed Marta through the throngs of well-wishers.

“Renata,” Marta began. “Meet Ms. Kokkinos. She’s a private collector, and a great admirer of your work.”

A private collector? Renata had assumed that any potential buyer with deep pockets would have been here representing a museum. She never expected a private collector would be interested—after all, Renata’s art was sad. Who would buy it to adorn a garden or household foyer?

Ms. Kokkinos turned out to be a woman with a perfectly coiffured helmet of silver hair and an unblinking stare. She towered over Renata and her sturdy frame made Renata’s own limbs seem willowy. But the older woman’s most arresting feature was the disquieting color of her eyes. Renata had never met anyone with eyes as gray as her own.

Before Renata could offer her hand, the tall woman thrust a business card into her palm. “Ms. Rukavina, my nephew sang your praises and I must say, he was not wrong. Your work is devastating.”

At a loss, Renata asked, “Your nephew?”

“He’s a police officer. I believe he helped you with a break-in at your studio? I hope you weren’t hurt.”

The detective. Of course. Now that she thought about it, Renata remembered the Greek cast to his features and could almost see them reflected in the severe face of his formidable aunt. “No, no, I wasn’t hurt. I’m honored by the detective’s interest in my work—and yours too.”

Ms. Kokkinos nodded curtly. “I’m particularly interested in The War Criminal. Would you be willing to make similar sculptures on commission?”

Renata tried not to show her astonishment. No one had ever commissioned a work from her before. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’d like you to sculpt this man.”

Renata already had the woman’s business card in one hand, so she had to reach with the other for the sketch. In so doing, she glanced at the drawing and her heart lurched.

She knew the face.

This was the face of the soldier who abducted her mother. And upon seeing him again, Renata’s knees threatened to buckle beneath her.

Ms. Kokkinos must have seen the horror writ plain on Renata’s face, because she eyed Renata owlishly and said, “You needn’t haggle over the price. I’m an heiress to a vast fortune, so you’ll be generously compensated.”

Renata didn’t want to be rude, but she felt bloodless and unsteady. “Would you mind—would you mind terribly if I took a moment to get some air?”

Renata didn’t wait for a reply. Clutching the drawing and the business card, she hastily withdrew, navigating her way around the velvet gallery ropes and pushing through the crowd. Renata headed straight for the exit that led to the fire-escape balcony. She just hoped she could get there before her knees gave way.

She found the door and flung it open. Without looking at the sketch again, she folded it into a small square around the business card and tucked both inside her bra, close to her heart. Then Renata took deep, comforting gulps of air. It had always been like this when someone triggered an unexpected memory. Even after her surgeries, when the doctors helped find a way for her to stay in the country, news from Bosnia panicked her. Even when she was safe in an American school, loud noises, such as a bell signaling the end of class, sometimes froze her heart within her chest.

Now as the fresh air calmed her jitters, Renata sighed with relief. The scars on her back were bothering her, but when she reached behind to adjust her dress, she realized that it wasn’t the fabric irritating her. Something hard and unyielding dug into her, and as she brushed it with her fingers, she realized it was the barrel of a gun.

“Don’t scream,” a man said from behind her. His arm wrapped around her, hard as iron, and he clamped a hand over her mouth.

Renata tried to decide if she should kick him or impale his foot with the stiletto heel of her golden sandal. But before she could decide, he hauled her towards the rail. “We’re going down the fire escape stairs.”

This was the second time in two days that someone had tried to abduct her at gunpoint, but unlike the lumbering intruder, this man had a graceful strength that prevented her from raking at him with her fingernails when she tried.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, sighing deeply by her ear. Suddenly, she smelled acrid smoke and charred flesh, the horrible stench of war. The stink of the explosion, the sensation of being on fire, and the sizzle of her own skin as it burned. Then came the blinding pain and the screaming, and remembering, she was overcome.