French Silk(88)

"In exchange for free advertising for French Silk, I suppose."

"Exactly. You admitted to me that his sermons were actually good for your business, not the other way around."

"Then why would I kill him and put a stop to such a good thing?"

"Maybe you found out you weren't the only one he'd worked a deal with. Maybe he had a whole legion of women—a different broad for every sin."

"You're sick."

"Maybe the love affair went sour. Was your "offering' to him a blackmail payment? Did you arrange to meet him while he was in New Orleans and work out a payment schedule? Only you decided to end it then and there." She managed to stand and tried to go around him, but he sidestepped and blocked her path. "Where'd you meet Jackson Wilde?"

Ringing back her head, she glared up at him. "I've told you. I met him only once, during the invitation he extended following his sermon in the Superdome."

"And you lied about that. While he was laying hands on you and granting eternal life, did he whisper his hotel-room number in your ear?" He took her arm in a firm grip. "You had a collection of clippings, Claire, documenting his whereabouts for years. He didn't fart without you knowing about it. That's obsessive behavior."

"I explained those clippings."

"It doesn't wash."

"Well I certainly wasn't his lover."

"You're not sleeping with anyone else."

"How do you know?"

Her question hung between them like the reverberation of clashed swords. The air crackled with animosity and suppressed passion.

Finally Claire said, "Excuse me, Mr. Cassidy."

She went around him and slipped through the screen door.





* * *



Chapter 17

? ^ ?

Ariel collapsed during the prayer service being held in Kansas City's Kemper Arena.

For half an hour she had held the capacity crowd spellbound. Garbed in white and spotlighted in the otherwise darkened arena so that her hair looked like a shimmering halo, her arms raised beseechingly toward heaven, she had created the illusion of a forsaken angel pleading to be called home.

One moment, her voice had been raised in supplication, her body quivering with fervency; the next, she lay crumpled on the stage. At first Josh thought she had taken her act one step beyond her usual theatrics. Mentally he congratulated her on her thespian instincts and skill. The audience, as one voice, gasped when her small form was swallowed by the voluminous white robe that mushroomed around her like a deflating parachute.

But when several seconds passed and she didn't move, Josh stood, scraping back his piano bench. The closer he got to her, the faster he moved. Either the spotlight was leeching all the color from her face or she was alarmingly anemic. He knelt beside her, anxiously calling her name. When he tried to lift her into a sitting position, she lay as limp as a ragdoll in his arms, her head lolling to one side. This was no act.

"She's unconscious! Somebody call 911! Get an ambulance here at once. Ariel! Ariel!" He slapped her smartly on the cheeks. She didn't respond. He searched for a pulse in her absurdly slender wrist. He felt a heartbeat, but it was feeble. "Move back and give her some air," he ordered those who had clambered forward to offer assistance.

Everyone in the arena was on his feet, creating a din so loud that Josh couldn't hear himself think. Some were praying, some were weeping, some were merely gawking. He told one of the program coordinators to order everybody to leave. "The show's over."

All Josh's efforts to revive Ariel failed. She didn't respond until the paramedics arrived and began their preliminary examination. "What happened?" she mumbled as she began to come around.

"You collapsed," Josh explained. "The ambulance is here to take you to the hospital. You'll be all right."

"Ambulance?" She weakly tried to fight off the paramedics when they strapped her onto the gurney. As they wheeled her to the waiting ambulance, she protested that she was fine and didn't need to go to the hospital.

"You have any idea what caused this?" one of the paramedics asked Josh, who insisted on accompanying them in the ambulance. "Is she diabetic?"

"Not that I know of. I think she's exhausted and depleted. She throws up everything she eats."

The paramedic took her blood pressure and reported his findings to the attending doctor in the emergency room of St. Luke's Hospital. The doctor ordered an IV, but by the time they reached the hospital, Ariel still looked near death. She hadn't regained her color, her lips were chalky, and her eyes were deeply sunken into their sockets. She was immediately wheeled into an examination room from which Josh was barred entrance.

He had plenty of responsibilities to occupy him. Videotape of Ariel's collapse had been broadcast as a news bulletin. Reporters, photographers, and sympathizers converged on the hospital in such numbers that a police barricade had to be erected. Unaccustomed as he was to public speaking, Josh made a moving, impromptu speech to the cameras and microphones.

"Mrs. Wilde has been exhausting herself in her efforts to seek justice for my father's murder. The doctors here have given me every reason to be optimistic. As soon as I know more, I'll share it with you. Please pray for her."