page_54 < previous page page_54 next page > Page 54 he were counting, and he muttered to himself as he went along. "Lost and won. A race?" Trutor held her face tightly with both hands as she thought. "I have it!" the Balloonist screamed, leaping to his feet. He hopped up and down on one foot, then the other. "Jury! Jury, jury, jury. Four-jury. Forgery." Trutor smiled at his exuberance. She read the riddle. "My whole is a crime of which I partake to hide the real and to promote the fake. It fits perfectly. Forgery. But why did she hide" She sat upright. "The money. It's not real, is it?" He picked up a bill between two fingers as though he were afraid of disease. "The paper has that thick, sticky, gritty feel of a bona fide bill. Besides, Caroline most likely would have called such money counterfeit, an easy enough word to fit into the constraints of a riddle. One forges a signature, or a legal document, or" He froze; his face grew long and colorless. Like dead birds, his hands fell from the air to his sides. His head snapped toward the other end of the hall, toward the Gallery. "My masterpieces," he whispered. "You don't think" The Balloonist walked as though in a trance down the long hall, his hands entwined in what little hair he had. The closer he got, the faster he walked; Trutor took long strides to keep at his side. Finally, for the last few steps, the Balloonist broke into a run. His arms flailed like broken wings as he sprinted through the doorway and skidded into the center of the Gallery. "Nooooo!" he bellowed as he dropped to his knees amid the brilliant colors. "Please! Not the paintings!" With a sob, he collapsed against his thighs into a small oval. Roberta had been right. Caroline's room had been cursed after all. Trutor knelt next to the Balloonist and draped her arm over his back. She could feel the knobs of his spine through his sweater, and she wanted to cry. She focused on the small whirls of dust that danced in the sunlight because there was nothing else in the room that did not bring her to tears. This was her fault, she told herself, her fault. They knelt like that for several long minutes. When the Balloonist had regained his poise, Trutor helped him into a sitting position. He seemed frail, old, and surprisingly tentative. Â < previous page page_54 next page >